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Brothers of the Sea 
Ban Zahorcik 
Jayne Woodcock 
Teri Moore 
•Judy Belfield 
Chris Moore 
Judy Belfield 
Kathy Siedler 
Nancy Lockhart 
Judy Belfield 
£eri Moore 
^eri_ Moore 
Nancy Lockhart 

Mountains Veiled In Mist.. 
Drearaer. ...... ...... 

The One That Got Away.-.. 
Truth* ». 

o o o o o » 

o o o o o o o 


« © a 9 


Thus Far And No Further, 
Robbery « 

000*999 0OOO9OOO9QO9OO9O9OO 

Sunday Afternoons 9 • , 

OCC-3.C J_ y 30,0 09*90*900*909*0< 

The Prize-Winning Photograph of a War Corre-spondfiflJL^.-* 
St. Martin And The Beggar. 


Is It Too Late For Dreano? 
Grace Before Meal s. ....... 



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♦ -a^o- •-<* • * ° 

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. ... 36 

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Judy Belfield Maureen Mueller 
Steve Faron Michael A. Stillman 
David Moore Randy Var ju 

John Stobart 

To get a submission printed in this iscue, four of the above had to vote for 
acceptance. For the award winners, only John Stobart is responsible. 

Manuscripts or. cover designs for JJORDEATER number 42 nust be submitted to John 

Stpbart^ir^room C-1069 by December 3. Manuscripts will not be returned. They nay 

•be anonymous and SHOULD BE TYPED. • ■ • <•• • — *-<v>*»««« 

***.-, ■. :<£ Wianers for this issue: * » - - v 

w # • fey • ^, t 9 , w - . j , v . - 


(Past prize winners are only considered when no new contributors seen worthy. ) 

Future Deadlines: 

February 15, 1982 and April 15, 1982 

All copyrights are retained by the authors, and material may not be pri$te<_ without 

their permission. 


R. Walser Yale 

Teri Moore 

Brothers of the Sea 

Bev Garcia 

Nancy Lockhart 

Michael A. Stillman 

Randy Varju 

Len Overcash 

Teri Moore 

Michael A. Stillman 

Teri Moore 

Michael A. Stillman 
-—Judy B»l?£fe Id - 

Bev Garcia 
*%R. "Salter Yale 

Judy Belfield 

Kathy Sledlor 

Chris Moore 

Charlotte Basinski 

Adriane Say lor 

Kathy Siedler 

Frank Rouch 

Chris Moore 

Auberon Thomas 

Sharon Fink 

Chris Moore 

Teri Moore 

Chris Moore 

Kathy Siedler 

Judy Belfield 

Michael A. Stillman 

Brothers of the Sea 

Nancy Lockhart 

Judy Belfield 

Nancy Lockhart 

Geri Harder 

Brothers of the S^a 

Kathy Siedler 

Nancy Lockhart 

Kathy Siedler 
"" Judy FcTfield 

Dog Chow Dog 

Underground Poetry 

League , Ltd. 

Chris Moore 

R. Waloer Yale 

Judy Belfield 


9 3*V t 


. . e « . o 9 


O O O « 9 

o o o e o 

Another Party. ..... ... ........ ....... - - 

Smile .............. ............ 

What Is Ours Is Ours,... 

A Limerick 

Wine Knot. » »«■« 

Prelude To The Evening Of A Young Dawn, 

J- JLfOVe .9...00..0.0«..*..0.0 9.... 00 °.. 0e 

otrengtn. . ... . . . . . . . . . . .■•• -»•»»»»»'•».»»»«» • « 

Nonsense. ...........................»» ,: ' 

Within. ..•.•..•••a.9.........oa..>...9° 

Shades Of 

Sonata Of The Ravine. ........... ....... 

Artist' o Block. . ........... ....o. ... ° • « 

Do\mc And Upo. fr . ••••••••. ...o y 

Changing Voice^. © * J* • » • > « ; » • *'• *| #;# • 
Oh, To Be In Ncbulfi In Springtime 
Forev/arning. ©©co©©.©©©.©©©©©.©*©© 

VJllcinCGG -L y JLJLo ©0©©©*©0©0©00©©0©0© 

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Atl ii.nGWG2T ooe>oo©ocoo©'©©oo©c©oooo©o 
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Terror. .......................... 

X «^-C-V_^Oo ©oa©>o©o©©o©©©©©©oo©o o o o o * o o 

Rime Of The Night. ............... 

Understanding. . .................. 

JUjL 1 1C o o*ooo ©.« ooo©©o©oo©©©or©«9»o 
JaCoXvjLuTICC* ©••©•©©•©oo©o©©o©o©*o* 

Frustration. ..................... 

The Coffee Shop. .................. 

Out To The Greengarden Gate...... 

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Expanding Feelings. .............. 

X OUl -L-'v-elLILo ooo<-»©o0o»»ocoooooooooo _ 

Agony In Eden. ...<.. 8 

A Death In Ancient Greece (Or In Bayonne, Jersey)..... 6 

\JXX DtXy \j 1j XtvG -1 ill OoQ©©«e©©©»©o©©©©oooooeo,©o©o©oo99oo©o©*©«» y 

Don't Fight The Feeling............... j) 

Ordeal................. J 

For Kathy And Betsy And Me.. 


D a isies And Diaamonds.. . 
Nirvana (Searching For You) 

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Popcorn And Concrete. .............. l() 

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Some thing is -i' ailing, . ......... .......... ................. > ^ 

Epiphany. .\u 

( continued j 


Teri Moore 
S. D. Butler 
Geri Harder 
Teri Moore 
Bev Garcia 
Michael A. Stillnan 
Teri Moore 
Val Breuch 
Chris Moore 
Bev Garcia 
Michael A$ Stillnan 
Ton Schnitz 
Teri Moore 
Brothers of the Sea 
Brothers of the Sea 
Maureen Mueller 
Judy Belfield 
Nancy Lockhart 
Teri Moore 
Judy Belfield 
Geri Harder 
Julie Wroble 
Bev Garcia 
Nancy Lockhart 
Judy Belfield 
Bev Garcia 
Jayne Woodcock 
Adriane Saylor 
Maureen Mueller 
Judy Belfield 
Maureen Mueller 
Bev Garcia 
Chris Moore 
Brothers of the Sea 
Teri Moore 
Randy Varju 
Chris Moore 
Teri Moorf 
Judy Belfield 
Kathy Siedler 
Chris Moore 
R. Walser Yale 
Teri Moore 
Nancy Lockhart 
Geri Harder 
Nancy Lockhart 
Kathy Siedler 
Teri Moore 
Brothers of the Sea 
R. Walser Yale 
Julie Wroble 
Randy Varju 
Sharon Fink 
Teri Moore 
Randy Varju 
Teri Moore 
Ton Boucher 
Randy Varju 
Sherry Meyers 
Mary Rose Stonehouse 
Ton Schnitz 
Michael A. Stillnan 
Mary Rose Qt. nohouce 
Teri Moore 
Cynthia Jane Craig 
Maureen Mueller 
Randy Varju 
Bev Garcia 
Chris Ifoore 

To A Wonan In Love ................ . . . . . 

You (Reflections On Beauty) . . . 

(WaS It7 ).................... V...^, ........ 

iJ Q LI cd-i G \-> 'llC oa*ooooo ooooooc»oooo »»oo»»c*oooo 

A Flower In My Hair 

It Might Have Been Saturday Afternoon. 

Anniversary. . . . . . 

Tine For Hin To Leave. 

Yl tiLi lOi O o • O o • © 9 m co oao«ooooeoo»aoooooe>ooooooeooo«ooc 
/"i. X XT 1 O IT Li i-<0 ou>aoso*o«e>o*oo*«»oo>eo<»oooe*«*eooooo>ecoao* 

The Words Between. ....... ...... b s; . ............... .... 

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i-J Oi L-C J. XL. nlKll Cc ooo»oooooooooo»«oooocooo«Qooooooooorfl 

Elephant Heart Beats. ............ 

Living Poetry. 

I'll Quit Tomorrow 

Two Glasses Of Wine. 

Always A Cup Between Us 

Dear Low Joe , Fron Marianne. 

I An The Shiver Of Your Skin. .................. .... 

1MO L DUyiilS c »oooo*ooo»cooo»oooooooo»o«»ocoooo»doo»oo« 

I Deal With You Just Fine. 

-OGCilTOOI-l O^UoORv^ •oo#oeoooooo#oooioooccc'«oooo«»co»coe 

This Heart. . ... 

Sunday With Siniles. ....... 

The Other Wonan. 

The Flick Of A Pale Blue Eye.............. . . 

I Sing Me.............. 

The Ronantic Pen. 

This Madness , Transcen 'encj. 

He Left Me . . ........ 

Going Home 


Golden Shafts Of Light — and -- River Of Rhythm... 
Street Sounds — and — He Didn't Really Look Hurt. 

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He Approached Slowly. 

No Shades -- and -- Portrait.. .................... . 

Sitting In The Marble-Walled Church................ 

Gothic Honey. ............ 

-L' -L lXL-\_iooooo«ooo(!ioDoooooo 

Today Traction Died. ..... 

Word Leas ................ 

Bitch Of A Sun. .......... 

Out To Lunch. ............ 

It's Yellow Tine... 

Illumination. ............ 

The Sun Dips Slowly. ..... 

Moonlight Painted Cloud.. 
Up Fron Cof f een. ......... 

Alcohol And I Don't Mix.. 
Bread And Butterflies.... 

Tine To Love. ............ 

Tu-Roses, Cheap 

Clinbing Stares 

Suburbia. ................ 



a a a © 

e o o o 

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a o e 

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« * o o • o 

o e o o • o 

e © © c 

Three Months Before Christnas. ............... . 

Playthings. ................................... 

Control.. ..... 

Not Again. .... 

And After That She Needed To Rest.... 

The Korean Pa j anas ................... 

Purple Rhododendron. ................. 

Picture Perfect. ..................... 

Vacuuning. — and — Stand Beck. 
Twinkie, Twinkle. . .. . . 

Anti-Donestic — and — A Dieter's Lanent. 
AH You Can Eat ..... 

. . O O O O O 

O . O O 




. • LI. 

















1 m • J) *J 




. .35 

(Continued on inside Back Cover) 

II, Waloer Tale 


Ah, another party -•• 
the exaggerated 
Good tine, 
The indigested night. 

A room full 

of crowded, 

Smoky women, 

F o o 1 s and c t r ang e 

Friends — 

And one wiry, 

Spooky , drunken 

Ola man 

Whirling in a wild 


Who StopG 

Long enough 
To tell you 
How man}' people 


Teri Moore 


. .sometime 


If for no purpose 

Other than 

To give your teeth 

Soma breathing space 


« * 

Brother s of the Sea 


What is ours is ours, 

What is theirs is a x so ours, 

Honor among thieves* 


isev ^arcia 


An old woman, just with her toes, 
pulled all the hair from her nose. 
She rose with a start, 
and saio. ^rom aer neart, 
'It-onl^ hurts when it blows 1" 


Michael A. Stillman 




















Nancy Lockhart 


Put me under, Dr. Beaujolais, 
Kiss me till I'm purple. 
Tickle me* and pickle me, 
Twiri#me »Ln a circle. 
Take me, Dr. 3aau;olais, 
To surgery with gloves. 
Feel for me, sweet bubbly, 
Give me all your love„ 




Randy Varju 


I love eating baby ducks 
Vandalising trucks 
Hissing moving trains 
and brains. 

I love winos when they're tight 
Hookers when they're white 
pepper in my tea 
and V. D„ 

I love green mold on my bread 
standing on my head 
dirty picture shows 
and picking my nose. 

I love little bloody pups 
dirty ba^hrogm cups 
breakfast from McDonald's 
and presidents named Ronald. 

And I love you too! 


Teri Moore 


Len Overcash 


Doctor Johnson came into the 
Surgical Intensive waiting room 
and saw a squat, balding man sit- 
ting on the front edge of the couch 
frowning at the TV, The ashtray 
beside his elbow was overflowing,, 
,: Mr. Thornley?" Dr. Johnson 

ITorman Thornley slowly looked 
toward him through eyes watei-3' and 
inflamed ^d no dded 

Several long strides brought 
Dr. Johnson closer, looking down 
on Thornley who did not stand or 
offer his hand to shake. 

Tall and aloof, Dr. Johnson 
detached himself from all emotion. 

"I'll be blunt," he said, 
though he was always blunt, whether or 
not he warned people about it. 

Select a full-bodied word; 

Rumples tilt skin, for example, 

A word that can't rest quietly, 

A word that has to be shouted out: 


Savor the word, 

Suck in your cheeks, .^ 

Blow 'em out, 

And roll those consonants 

Over 3rour tongue: 


Make up your own little song, 

Walk the streets and hum it loudly and cheerily: 



Finally, seize every opportunity 

To use your private find 

In conversations with the unsuspecting. 

"My, my it's really a Rumplestiltskin of 

a day, isn't it?" 
You'll really get a Rumplestiltskin out of it. 


eight hours. 3ut yes, I think she'll 
make it. Recovery will take a long, long 

"Your wife is in very grave condition. time feut ghe seems to be a very strong 
has been beaten with a blunt instru- woman to survive all this, Mr. Thornley. 

And that's what you'll need — patience 


nent. Probably a piece of pipe or a 
hammer. And she has several stab wounds 
about which I'm puzzled. Hone of these 
are very deep. Almost as though the per- 
petrator wasn' t trying to kill her that 
way. Very strange. Finally, she has a 
gunshot wound in the abdomen, small cali- 
ber, luckily." 

Thornley struggled slowly to his feet. 

"Will she . „ . will she live?" he 
asked in a harsh whisper, biting his low- 
er lip. 

"We'll know more in the ne::t forty- 

and strength." 

Norman Thornley turned away to look 
out the large window at the midnight 

"She's going to live," he muttered, 
"3e strong," Dr. Johnson repeated.. 

in his best professional tone. 

Be strong, Thornley wondered. Where 

at my age will I get enough strength 

to do it all again? 

Teri Moore 



I feel like a Weed today, 

Tall spindly and prickly. 

Shooting out my arms 

To protect my turf. 

Implanting myself firmly, 

Pushing my heels down 

Into moist soil and 

Feeling fat worms 

Slip over my roots. 

31owing raspberries to the radishes, 

Curling around the carrots, 

Nudging Idaho ' s toes 

And I don't want to hear any corn. 

I dare anyone to pluck me up. 

I'm green today and this is my_ gai-d en- 

Michael A. Stillman 


The wind ripples the lake. 

The unseen makes itself known 

To the eye. 

Trying to maintain the clarity of vision, 

It fades into the soft edge of evening. 

I listen to the silence and realize — 

Capable of thunder, 

.1 ivn <v>nf^nt: \rith peace or mind. 

***** * ** 


Michael A. Stillman 


I. Allegro 

Pressure building in the inner ear 
Confrontation spawning fear 

linages moving inside the brain 

Repression' s workload back again 


Knife twist 

Flowers wilt in freezing rain 

Blades of memory penetrate 
When night lies deep 
Scraping bone and goring flesh, 
They withdraw satisfied. 

Welcome to my reality 

Shaped by heredity and environment 

And poisoned by experience, 

III, Adagio 

We were playing roulette out on the desert. 
My friend Tammy and I. 

„. ,. , : _ I thought I heard someone crying across 

Vincent died on tne cross ror someone's sins t « _i an - n 

But not his own 

Civic pride is conformity's den 

And he's stoned 

I knew a poet once 

She was overcome by Plathetic moods; 

Her muse was the rcuro. 

in her chiascuro, 

And the dep 

in her manic-depressive wardrobe, 

II. Andante 

But she said it was just two bobcats, 

making love. 

The desert stars were sharp as pins 

As they sizzled through our retinas. 

Our optic nerves were burning 

As we felt the chamber spin; 

Another mood dressed in gun-metal black, 

And the trigger clicked again, 

17. Coda 

An artist grew a painting once, 
Called "Ravine in the Peyroulets"; 
It is a tortured canvas of half-brushstrokes 
Maybe if I could just close my eyes . , . -^ ±g ^iU living. 

It features a mountainside audibly burning, 

preventing passage, 

And a Stygian stream 

flowing in ice over sharp rocks, 

Carrying the viewer to 

His own personal hell. 

This artist sold only two paintings 

In his mercifully short life, 

and "Ravine" was not one of them. 

Always tired, but never sleepy: 

The Insomniac's curse. 



There's too much to see 

with my eyes closed. 

Did I just hear a cry for help? 

Like 7an Gogh, I'll lend an ear. 

They tell me that the world is spinning; 

I feel so much, but never that. 

The dying light of a quarter moon 
Makes the rainbow fade 
To all of the colors of gray, 
And my nerve endings scream 
Like nails «n slate. 

Can you hear it? 

Somewhere tonight 

An artist is feeling without a net 

into the void 

The deep black void. 

Can you hear it now? 

Judy Beifield 


I could twist you 

into a pop-art, soup-can, cartnon collage, 

or a classic statue of Bacchus, 

grape leaves falling on your forehead 
I might pound you as flat 

as Grandma Moses's grass, 

or a Lichtenstein cow 

grazing in a field of yellow lemons,, 
You could sit in a diner 

at three in the morning 

on a soft plastic toilet seat, 

contemplating the bust of Homer, 

Rembrandt browns in the background, 

and Titian angels at your feet, 


You could be a clock 
squeezed like a tear 
out of a Joan Iiiro eye, 
or coiled like a spiral jetty 
in the center of a Roman arch. 

You could be any of these things — 

I sit here considering the possibilities 

but instead, 

you sleep in that lump of clay, 
and don't even dream. 

Bev Garcia 


Loneliness isn't just being left by myself. 

It's being with someone I know doesn't cars. 

It's being used, then set carelessly back on a shelf, 

and being only one, where there should be a pair. 

Sadness isn't just losing when I should have won. 
It's the pain in ny stomach that won't go away. 
It's the tears in my eyes that blot out the sun, 
and maize me wish for no more new days. 

Hope isn' t just a glimmer in the bad; of my mind. 

It's something that gets me through a difficult bout. 
It's knowing to keep looking and someday I'll find 
that peace at the end of my long, uphill route. 

Contentment is more than just not being driven. 
It's smiling on the inside, as well as the out. 
It's knowing I've received as much as I've given, 
and living each day, once more, free of doubt. 


Judy 3el field 

R. Walser Yale 


How to escape 

Consistent voice 





The choices 

To make 


Your own — 

Reading to mirrors 



How to escape 

Voice — 





Oh, to be in Nebula in springtime, 

far away from the trill of songbirds, 

the bittersweet fragrance of clovex-, 

and the hints of honeysuckle in the Air. 
My arms feel so bare 

as I try to hide 

in the corners of my winter self, 

peeking out from time to time, 

only to spot one more flowerbud, 

and know it is too exquisitely real. 
I dread the caress" of April, 

for it means to drown me, 

while saffron-faced Phoebus looks softly through clouds. 
Oh, to be in Nebula, 

where the seasons are so much the same 

they aren't given names. 
I want to sit there 

among the clustered stars, 

keeping watch on the darkness, 

and come home on the first snowflake of December. 

How to escape 
A boundless 
Cell — 
No boundaries 
To tunnel under, 
Climb over — 
No secret door, 

But one 

Truly drastic 

Which I am 
Not yet ready 
To take. 



Kathy Siedler 

Beware you tyrant lover 

Cast no shadows on my dreams, 

Prepare yourself to battle 

You'll not use your caustic schemes. 

I'll survive your onslaught 

Though you've staged a vicious war, 

I'll 3tand, my head above the clouds 

A scepter in your gtorrn. 

I'll face the ic}' winds 

Lashing violently at me, 

I'll withstand the devastation 

I'll preserve my dreams. 

There'll be no annihilation 

No forsaken dreams to grieve, 

You'll not tempt me to abandon 

For I still believe. 



Chris Moore 


Unlock my chains 

I want to be held 

One second longer 

Strength, break these bonds, 

Release vaj mind 
I've learning to do 
My brain will 
Take on any test. 

Heart and lungs 
Fortify my muscles 
With a hungering power 
To tear down resistance. 

My day has arrived 
I have prepared 
Now I will act. 


Give me some room 
I want to stretch out 
Develop all my talents. 
Mistakes don't worry me 
They're part of growing. 
Besides they are mine 
I can use them later. 

.JL. *W-*t- fc t- _'-..'-*.'- 

Charlotte Basinski 


"keep your sense of humor" 
Have heard this cliche 
It's really hard though, 
when at night I lay. 
"Smile through your tears 
Let come what may." 
How can I when 
there is no pay? 
Nc food for the kids 
from day to day. 
Tomorrow will he better 
I pray that it may 
Somewhere — somehow 
I'll find the way. 


Adriane Saylor 


What do you say 
when you see a woman 
with the sky in her hands 
holding up the moon 
this lady tells you 
tomorrow is now 
asks you to hold on tight 
she ' s gonna take you for a 
moan-ride over Cowtown 

You look at her 

with one eye on the way 

she's got you fixed 

in her lust/best stare 

and you say yes 

and forget that any moment 

up till then 

existed for either one of you. 

Kathy Siedler 


Sometimes we are as children needing to be 
led, yet not always following in stride. Children 
of the world, while you *x«* yet naive, I ask that 
you hear my words. Perhaps then you may find your 
true selves and fear not the inevitable, for you 
will appreciate the transcience of life and breathe 
each breath with a revived gratitude. 
Your adversary shall be persistent, even now he 
creeps up — - silentlj?- devastating. Yet worry not 
about things you may only delay and never truly 
prevent. Accept the interlude in peaceful slumber. 
Celebrate life each day, for in sorrow there is 
only regret. 

Once you have found the gatex/ay to your inner selves 
and touched your very soul, you shall see that no 
reward lies in fearing a termination which comes of 
every living being. It will then appear to you a 
natural course; one that may onljr be accepted, for 
in time your rebellion against it would become a 
fruitless journey. 

Life conceals so much sadness in the shadows of 
laughter ... make peace among yourselves, yet 
especially with yourself. Attempt not to conquer 
the evil in others, but that of yourself. 
For every dream I gave away or left in an embryonic 
stage; for every dawn I neglected to observe and 
every passion I let lay unkindled in slumber — I 
leave these to you, for in knowing you, I came to 
know myself. In all people I have seen a portion 
of myself. Thus, I leave behind hope that you will 
also find such eplendor in awakening and serenity 
in departure. 


Chris Moore 


'■"rank Rouch 


Terror lies 

In butterflies 

And things that should 

Little boy cries 

And then he sighs 

A brand new broken toy 

*X* — , - *A» *| —X—I« •-£-• •. '.» 

*\ ** *V ?W\?V *\ 4\ 

Faces have told me stories. 
In them the world has been revealed to me. 
I have seen faces of hate, grotesque and withdrawn. 
Faces of love were beautiful, 
Glowing i n the full radiance of the sun. 
Hunger can also be seen on faces — 
Black faces, brown faces, yellow faces, 
Red f^ces q^^. wn ite faces. 
They are hollow. They plead. 

Faces of peace are relaxed, joyful and full of life, 
I have also seen the faces of war, distorted, 
b^ng Joy Broken by despair \/ith no hope in sight. 

The faces of the future are bright and hopeful. 
The faces of the past are empty, revealing nothing 
Of the life they live. 
Some faces are alluring. These belong to the 

lively people. 
The contorted faces belong to haters 
Those who make war and cause hunger. 
Faces do reveal the world. 



Auberon Thomas 


If we can feel the heat 
Rising in between 
Then it must be real 

If we can pierce the sky 
Come out the other side 
Then it must be true 

If we can^ dream a life 
With the* ceilings high 
Then it must be ours 

If we can carve a heart 
Out of moon9 and sighs 
Then it must be love 

Sometimes I can see tomorrow 

And we're smiling there 

But sometimes the wheel keeps turning 

And we ju3t don't care 

Sometimes the hope is shining 

And it burns right through 

Sometimes the moon is breathing 

And you're feeling blue 

And sometimes I wish we were sane . « . 


Chris Moore 


You are STARING 

at ME; 

I'm not an exhibit,, 

Do you think I'm an object 

To be leered at? 

I'm a person 

Not an alien being. 

Why do you GAWK? 

My existence is real 

Hot animated, 

No special effects, 

I don't hiss or growl* 

Sharon Fink 


There are those who are sighted, 

but cannot see, 
How very sad those people 

must be. 
Their eyes can focus and 

But they miss the point with 

only a blink. 
They may look, and watch 

and study and hear, 
But refuse to consider or 

think — out of 


They cannot accept and 

can't understand, 
They're helpless as aliens 

in an alien land. 
There are those wit hout vision, 

who inform and tell, 
And understand what they 

"see" so well. 
They listen and feel for 

vibrations deep, 
They're faithful to the vigil 

that they keep. 
They strain to know and 

care and feel, 
Their senses lead them to 

what is real. 
They reason out all that they 

possibly can, 
And present their answer 

to the sighted man<t 

Chris Moore 

Somehow the unfairness 

V .- .— w< 

stands out. 

Even if onl3 T to me, 

-t ,.-, . *. . . r-. ^.^^^^^ „„„ TTr -,„„ r Which makes sense. 

Nothing about me justifies your INTENSE SCRUTINY. 

I have a soul; 

You are similarly ■ endowed, I gather, 

But you find it necessary 

To glare 
At ME-! 

Teri Moore 

As a victim 

Understanding is my forte, 
A constant, 

always following. 
Wrongs, no matter how trivial 
Are hoisted upon me. 
Rights unforgotten. 



Why do you tap on my window so? 

I won't let you in. 

Your sly, wrinkled grin 

D'oesn't Fool me. 

I will not be overcona 

By your sneaky silence. 

I know you're still there 


Hoping to creep stealthily 

Into my house, 

With gnarled, tfemMing* fingers, 

And leave 

Unwanted signs of age on my body. 



Kathy Siedlar 


Ravenous eyes seel: consolation in a fam- 
iliar face; perhaps u smile would suffice, 
even if only temporarily,, 
Caffein and nicotine enthusiasts congre- 
gate to indulge their daily requirements. 
Bleary-eyed, shadowy- featured figures make 
their way through the morning — so their 
mundane routine commences,, 
I have never tasted the blandness of hol- 
low routine, somehow spared the abomina- 
tions of a stagnant life and devoid of the 
repressed dreams that dwell within merely 
empty beings, 

I have always existed as an unruly limb 
upon a birch, refusing to conform to the 
direction of the majority,, I proceed in 
fathoms of controversy,. 
Some stare blankly as dreams wither and 
perisho Caffein dawning and barbital 
gleaming; between the two, jsn, empty 

:hem, «.l- 

Sacrificial martyrs. 1 pity 
though it was their own ^abstinent palms 
that set them upon the baser rung3 of 
subsistence. Sometimes the sacrifice 
is not worthy of its alleged ad- antage. 
Some profess to be resilient; always 
bending, never breaking. Bowing obedient- 
ly to the winds, so taut forms will not 
snap under its pressure. Fragmatic lives; 
no frivolity; no caprice. Immobile in 
their own refuse, blaming the very en- 
vironment in which they chose to dwell 
for the adversity bestowed upon them. 
Some so easily mastered, they were des- 
tined to be servants. 
Midmorning rain batters the window of 
the coffee shop, but I do not succumb 
as do these haggard realists. I decide, 
after observing the products of meaning- 
less existence to nourish my dreams to 
full bloom — reality. 

*\ <•* 4\ *\ * WV tfY 

Judy Belfield 

Michael A. Stillman 


Out to the Greengarden gate 

to wait for the jingle of keys, 

take that foot off my face — 
I'm a lasting disgrace 
to my mother. 
Out to the bluelilac lake, 

and taking my tinsel along. 
I may be wrong 
about all the right things, 
but honey still stings — 
and there's mother, 
pulling a shawl 
overall of her all, 
and trying to hide from the shame. 
I conquered, but saw I was lame, 
just the came — 

there never was laurel in clover. 
The day had to end 

on one side or the other, 
and when it was over — 
there was mother, 

kissing a vagrant in velveteen jeans 
and ripping my seams out from under. 
But was it over? 
Out to the fir-bearing forest 

to pick up the crackling cones. 
Like the mess in my bedroom on Monday, 
they litter the landscape til Sunday, 
emitting a chorus of groans and moans — 
and mother sits next to the door, 
welding my underwear right to the floe 
Can't bother with father; 
he'd rather just lather 
and shave, 

no matter the patter, 
the rant or the rave. 

There gti.ll aint another 


you and I we 
hide a face the 
flat pavane we 
feel a mind but 

you and I we 
talk a friend the 
time alone we 
share a pain cut 

you and I we 
spark a blood the 
killing sun we 
live a life shut 

Brothers of the Sea 

Expanding feelings, 
An emotional snowball, 
Ever growing love. 

like toothless old mother, 

biting my bones like an acid refrain: 

"What have I to gain, 
what have I to lose, 
what have I to take to the tomb? 
There isn't a mile, but an inch, 

so they say, 
from maturity back to the womb." 


Nancy Lockhart 


Your death has crawled 

Into me like a snake 

That masquerades as vein — 

If only I could bleed it away* 

But, instead, it slides and hides and laughs 

Its echoes of madness, 

Sucking at my raw brains, 

Judy Belfield 


Drawing, away the dregs of my strength. 


aeatn is a worm 

Which lays her eggs 
On my heart,, 


Julie Wrobel 


I can see it so clear — 

but I'm too weak to fight, 

too tired to run, 

too scared to cry. 
Don't look at. me, 
I can see tears rolling 

down your cheek. 
Tears are no solution. 
They don't heal. 

I'm leaving soon 

and I'm sorry. 

I didn't choose this. 

Nobody asked for my opinion. 
You know I don't want to go — 

and it gnaws my inaides so painfully. 
It hurts, but I have ^destiny. 

Save your stupid pity. ■■ 

It only makes me realize my alternatives 

Stop crying I say! 
Grow up for once 

and leave me now. 
My god, everyone has to die 


Geri Harder 

There is an agony in Eden 
which cannot speak itself, 
and so it writhes 
in the lush and lonely moonlight, 
as its slow heartbeat 

throbs against the damp earth, 
as it searches the stars for a voice 

which will wail through eternity, 

and echo back 

seven times seven. 
Death stalks Eden in the night, 

lightly fingering a cage of ribs, 
which flutters delicately like a harp 

a sudden gasp sucks in 

a final breath, 

and the cold shadow 

moves silently on. 
Where are the words of anguish, 
and how am I to say them 
with rocks on my throat 
and God's leaden foot 
on my soul? 


On days like this 
Nothing hurts. 
When all the guys 
In flannel shirt9 
And baseball hats 
Remind me of you. 
When the gray sky 
Is just a shade of blue. 
When the wind in my hair 
Feels like your hand 
As if somewhere, 
You're remembering too. 
On days like this 

Nancy Lockhart 


Be quick, sweet hemlock, 

Expedient upon the heart. 

Let breath fly swift away. 

Breath which long has mocked mortality. 

Make haste this brave departure, 

For Slow convulses to ashen hue, and 

Drowns in its own drool, 

Offending sensibilities 

Of those which loathe to grieve. 

The dayf lower, the sparrow and I 


Taste the wind. 


That ' s enough ; 

Though I know it's just 

Imaginary stuff 

That makes me smile. 

As touchable 

And lasting 

As the passing 


Of the Sea 



Don't fight the feeling, 

Stay with me til morning comei 

Says she who fears not. 



Kathy Siedler 


Though you are near me, 

I walk alone o 

Even my shadow dawdles, 

detached from all things 

good and evil. 

Discontented in attachment 

yet moreso in this indifference,, 

Fearing the consequences 

of being afraid. 

Though your lips grase my cheek 

I feel emptiness and sadness; 

a loss. 

But of what? 

Of what is not? 

I cannot simulate love. 

I walk alone, 

whether I am or not. 

The ultimate emptiness. 

I am not aged 

yet feel a drained weariness. 

Have my emotions chilled 

so I may not love? 

I am so distant, so remote, 

yet willfully so. 

Suffering to keep from suffering, 

Feeling nothing so I may not feel pain. 

An empty abyss, 

God, has it come to this? 

*X*aJ* tJ** *.',.».>-. iJ* &.ta •>£* 


Nancy Lockhart 


Judy Belfield 


May I tell you of dimpled daisies 
smiling at the thunder, 
curling their velvety petals 

over their faces 
so the bellowing stonagods 
can't see them giggle? 
May I tell you of the thousand diamond 


flashing in the gr g S s J ust a0 tIle sun 

and how they glitter and dance 
through the short morning hour 
before they escape into the air 
where they sparkle and stare 
and wait for moonlight? 
And may I tell you of fitful midnights 
without any stars, 
but only shadows and delusions 
flickering out their illusory lives 
into the deathbeds of darkness? 
My empty soul is there, 
mourning a .stillborn dream 
xrhich lies silent and crumbling 
in the dust. 

Oh, yes -- 

I, too, would rather hear 
of daisies and diamonds,, 


Discontent clung to the corners of the room. 

Loneliness curtained the windows. 

These she cleaned and then 

Swept up the anger of her sisters 

Into a neat pile, an important accumulation. 

She couldn't dispose of the sweepings. There was nothing she could give, 

They seemed to her sacred, somehow, And so the pile remained thus 

Like the burnt palms of Ash Wednesday For days and weeks , 

Or the remains of an ancient ancestor. Allowed to disappear- of its own volition. 

Something of herself needed to be placed there 

Among the gatherings, Now the house holds these fragments 

To be mingled, Like the womb of 

To be made common, A dead mother 

Before the pile could be removed. Holds the bones 

Yet she dismissed every idea of adding 'pearte ' Of her child „ . „ 

Or representations of herself As inconspicuous as 

For fear they each contained Cobwebs in a cellar. 

The whole of her existence. 


Kathy Siedler 


Beneath the tree that shelters me, 

I lie in quiet reverie. 

No affection, passion left, 

An empty shelf where they were .. kept. 

Fragments of a severed heart 

Are windswept, drifting, torn apart. 
Shattered dreams in silent grief, 
Scattered pieces in the breeze* 
Among the ruins the rennantc stand, 
Like withered cacti in the sand. 



Dog Chow Dog 


A life, 

Led in seeking 

For you. 


You possess; 

A tethered independence 

Of life, 


For an unattainable goal, 

With loyalty unflagging 

For you. 

A book, 

Once read, 

That now is closed, 

Will I find you 

Street, lovely and 



The Underground Poetry League, Ltd- 


When it hits my senses 

Like a long lost friend 
I'jje got to remember e . . 

• - ' ■ m 
That familiar scent 

Takes me 

To a better time 

To a beat-up Pontiac 

And a brown-eyed girl 
And popcorn and concrete. 

R. Wal3er Yale 

Chris Moore 



You loved me. 
Our love brightened 
The darkest way. 

Our hearts rang with joy, 
Kisses sparked the heavens. 
Love whispers 
Thundered across mountainc 

The sun's heat became a cool breeze 
Ne:ct to the fire 
In our hearts. 
We were in love. 

Let' s love now 
Like yesterday. 

Judy Belfield 


Stepping lightly on the stair, 
she glanced back but briefly, 
with all the gold of cunchine 

in her hair, 
and on her face, 
the glow of an enchanted smile* 

In a moment's blinking 
she was gone — 
an apparition winking in a doorway 

But in that small, unmeasured time, 
before a mind could question, 
another eye had caught the rhyme 
of sunshine, glow and smile. 


Something is failing. 
It's falling and I can't 
Put my finger on it 


t enougn ringers 


My room is . . . un 


I guess- 

Clothes and sheets 

And books * 

Endless piles 

Of unanswered letters, 

Forgotten receipts. 

Looks like 

Fall's ugly leaves 

Blown and scattered 

In gutters and corners — 

In a piling disarray, 

A strange chronological 


I lay and listen 

To Abbey Road 

For the seven- hundred 

Fifty- thousand 

Two- hundred 


First time ... 

She couldn' t be 
All th at heavy. 


Teri Moore 


To a woman in love, 

Sometimes the vilest man 

Evolves ' into an heroic character, 

For a woman, 

An emotion of such intensity 

Clouds the vision, 

Distracts the intellect 

Immobilizes the heart. 

She wor ships her superman 

Illogically, passionately 

And selfishly, 

Until her knight 

Dissolves inevitably 






Geri Harder 

(WAS IT?) 


Coolly detached. 


Ran like hell. 
A thief in the night, 


A soul-matOo 

(heard me?) 


Just out of my reach, 
(lured me?) 

I can't remember 
How it really was. 

Bev Garcia 


I cared. 

I saw his soul before all else. 

In his eyes was. a reflection of myself. 

He put a flower in my hair. 

S. D. Butler 


When I look at you many things I see, 
Will I evG £ know you, 3weet mystery? 
The world has never witnessed such beauty, 
So lovely, do I ask too much of thee? 

In your eyes I see a sparkling waterfall, 
My soul is stirred by its soft gentle call, 
A crescent of moon from heaven did fall, 
And became the smile that I still recall. 

Auburn locks make plain a painted sunset, 
A heart of gold on a throne of velvet, 
Street captivity, I'm caught in your net, 
Upon your head a ruby crown I'd set. 

But to gaze upon thy countenance fair, 
To run my fingers through your precious 

For such pleasures any risk I would dare, 
My love for you I forever declare. 

Whenever you're near I need play no role. 
You've reached into my heart and touched 

my soul , 
For so short a season you made me whole, 
And thus became my one and only goal. 

These simple words that I blend into 

rhyme , 
To express those things that I feel all 

the time, 
The sound of your voice as clear as a 

chime , 
Is loving you too much truly a crime? 


Teri Moore 


He cheated 
She tried 
He left 
She cried 
He returned 
She lied — 
A new lover 
To hide. 
He stayed 
She departed 
Two remain 

I loved. 

Our minds, like two lonely hands, intertwined. Broken-hearted 

A part of me, long dead, laughed again. They wind up 

He put a kiss upon my heart, Where they started,, 

T <-iJ*is:i -r 

The seasons changed too quickly, a&~ &cxtr.&txin&e> h^pp-ena. 
The flower slowly wil.tei:1 and dx&iia 
The lon<ily h'-fitfds . r >.li?a."pd their 1 grip. 




Michael A. Stillman 


It might have been Saturday afternoon; 

Alone by the brook, 

We celebrated the meadow, 

Verdant and sparkling, 

And smiled at the young clover 

Speckled playfully across the green- 

I saw a rainbow in the stained-glass sky, 

And its colore were mirrored in her eyes. 

Then I woke up » | 

And placed my foot firmlry on tpe ground,, •• 

T thought myself foolish 

For having dreamed that I could become involved again 

So soon , 

When the wounds in my back had not yet healed. 

I went to the window 

The street was grey and empty 

Must be Sunday again* 


Teri Moore 


Well dear, 
Another year 
Almost here. 
Marital peers 
Two careers 
•Steady gears 
.Paid arrears 
No tears 
Few fears 
Some leers 
Sexy ears 
3e here 
Next year, 
Shall we? 


Val Breuch 

Chris Moore 



Time for him to leave. 


he eases out, 


He departs, 

memory of their ecstatic union 

spilling over him. 


she rises with 


captured within ... 

a caterpillar wrapped in its cocoon 

he is hers though he is gone. 

She wishes he knew 
her happiness 
with her possession of 
his seed 

She cannot give her lover too much. 


Bev Garcia 


Today I made her savagely weep 
guilty pellets of driving rain 
that penetrated my hardened soul 
as pain-games were viciously plaj'ed.. 

Thoughtless minds vehemently fired 
lightening bolts of angry distrust 
and ever-growing anguish was felt 
for what was lost in. waged. 

They stood together 

Battle raging, 

Unafraid of danger 

Hands interlocked. 

They were fighters 

Against war, 

Two amongst billions 

Seeking love. 

Love conquered them 

Even as the war raged on. 

They wanteds love 

For each*6tfief J — 

Their families, neighbors, 

Love for the world 

So long as the battle raged. 

They realized 

There is love 

Throughout the world 

Filled with love and joy, 

No hint of fighting. 

Their love was 

A million yesterdays, 

Every tomorrow. 

It had to be, 

They were all there was, 

Only they could 

Dream, hope, pray 

Wish and love. 


Our ammunition, like deadly thunder, 
echoed throughout smoldering flames, 
slowly suffocatdd by unspoken remorse 
shared by each, in separate, space. 



Michael A t St i Ileum 


ray mind in 
polite discourse 
verbal clouds masking 
true expression we talk 
with no hands the lighthouse of 
your eyes lip-reading across the 
valley of emotion catch the wind 
is a net of knotty tongue bondage tied 
by staeeato chips of thought chunk reverb we 
translate the tangled webs of sound dialectic 
chervil cut logos brisket (rare) and pelting 
Celtic skelter from the starry side of 
Pluto or a swarm «f shadow in 
a primal dream with pneumatic 
milksuit crescent mooncrashing 
on the frustration of 
the necessary 

ritual of 
words between 
you end 

Tom Schmitz 



But she just walked on by 



/* rfV ** /> 4\ 4\ #W\ 

Teri Moore 


Late at night 

When the pipes gurgle, 

I can't sleep til 

I wiggle up next to 

Your backside,, 

If you stir , 

Move an inch, 

I follow. 

In the grey morning hours, 

I awd-.a to find you 

Han;y- sag 

On the edge of the bed. 

Ma x ; -htbehind. 

When you're gone, 

She bed is TOO BIG 

And I can't sleep 

Between cold sheets. 

Judy Belfield 


Two glasses of wine 
float you out 

f;:rvi vhe oKsret places in my mind, 
wh •::•,:•» I kttt-.i; you stashed away, 
preL-rad.iiig you were never real, 

float yoa out 

to whisper poetry in my ear, 
and I hear, 

as though your throat were sm near 
my lips could touch the wordo. 

Two glasses *f wine 
sx-e agony. 

****** * * 

Brothers of the Sea 


Elephant heart beats, 

With the strength of twenty men, 

Has he as much l*ve? 



Maureen Mueller 

Living poetry, Love's libations 

Motion defies description, Such sweet sensations 

Staggering me with 





Sure ... 

I've over- imbibed before 

But this is a new vintage 

So, pop the cork 

I'll quit tomorrow. 


Nancy Lockhart 


Always a cup between us — 

Tea, coffee, a coke with two straws, 

A prophet's blood on tap. 

(I become) your fruit jar, 

Fermenter of miracles 

Where you come to sip 

When thirsty or sad. 

The chalice of Alice in Wonderland, 

Overflowing with little white babies. 

A vessel of days half spilled. 

A vial of poison 

Drawn from a teat. 

Always a cup 

Between us. 



Judy Belfield 


Teri Moore 

I am the shiver of your skin 

on cool autumn nights, 

the frosty puffs of your breath in January 
I am the elusive thought 

that flits through your mind, 

and the faceless specter in your dreams, 
I am the grayness of your gloom, 

the effervescence of your laughter, 

the tedious sameness of your everydays. 
I am so much you 

I cannot una me 

in the blur , 

and though we are sliced apart, 

you are the rests between the beatings of my heart, 

for our souls have kissed in the twilight, 

and neither you nor I 

can ever be 

alone . 


If you came back to me, I would: 

Welcome you quiet^ 

Caress you gratefully 

Kiss j^ou tenderly 

Love you unceasingly,. 

Please "don't come -back** ■— - - 

**** ** ** 

Julie Wroble 



Geri Harder 


I can't stand your type« 

The show, the hype. 

Just what are you trying to sell? 

You've got too msny windows 

And too many doors. 

I don't want to know you that well, 


Bev Garcia 



Wrapped in a blanket of trust, 

nothing is too sacred to share. - 

Awkward experiments prompt giggling mistakes, 

thrilling surprises and hints of submerged 

waiting to be freed. passion, I know just what to do, 

You call me up in the middle of the night 
and make me laugh til I cry» 
I laughed until I cried, 

Then I just cried, 
But I dealt with it just fine. 

You make me feel so lit up — 
that I want to burst apart, 
And you're so tough I'll shudder 
Sometimes I'll really shudder 
But I deal with it just fine. 

Playing it shy is the name of your game — 
but you're such an eye catcher 
and they love to look your way. 
You turn yourself around — 

and f ix your eyes on me 
You don't: act busy strutting 

You just like to let things be. 
You tell me that you love me 
time after time again 
at first I didn't believe you. 

I thought it was all so insane. 
Now I know it's true -«- we don't play 

foolish games. 

Soft lips, gentle tongues and curious 

explore new textures and emotions. 
Arms and legs interlock 
as firm, gleaming bodies blend 
in the urgent act of new love. 
Exhaustion ultimatel}' takes hold 
as a new day blooms. 
Satisfied lovers enjoy 
the deep sleep of youth. 

and I know you feel the same. 
Maybe you are a little crazy, 

and upset me some of the time — 
and sometimes you act pretty stupid, 
But I deal with you just fine,, 


Hugging their respective pillows 
out of frustration and pain, 
they are blanketed by the perpetual 
SUMMER temper 

of self-imposed rejection. 
Balancing on the edge for fear of touching, Emotions, curbed by too many nights 
they foign sleep with steamy eyes wide of worry and tension, 

open. shift into neutral, while spiteful 

Heated arguments and dog-day problems di~eams 

Boil internally, intrude on an already unsatisfying 

forming a barrier of hostile bricks sleep. 

between them. 


With concession made and all else 


-14- (continued) 

Bedroom Seasons, continued 

contentment reigns in the stability 

of years together., 

The experiences of harvest days 

flow from feather pillows to attentive 

Worn hands touch familiar areas 
with confidence and skill. 
Satisf aetslon is "taken for granted; • ♦ 
in gentle lovemaking 
under soft blankets of intimacy. 
A soothing night's sleep comes easily, 
resting confortably next to a loving 



Two pillows lay patiently waiting. 

Regretfully, only one will be occupied. 

Peace is shattered 

by unrelenting recollections. 

Scrapbook images of devoted sea3onc 

intermingle with recent sorrow 

that will not be buried 

as quickly as the dear one. 

Regrets and yearnings 

combine to produce warm tears 

that slide down cool, withered cheeks. 

Blanketed by the constant loneliness 

that comes with loss, 

there will be no rest 

for many nights to come. 

In its place, midnight talks 

with an old friend, now departed 

will fill the icy hours until dawn. 

Judy Bel field 


It i3 Sunday with similes, 

Sunday afternoon with planned jot — 
but not very. 
Finishing popsicles is deflating — 
like floating cold balloons 
in air too hot and close. 
How fr.r away 
is air? 

It is always like honeybees and buzzing, 
or lilacs and perfume, 
or breathing and life. 
Water burbles 

and a clickety sound somes from 

somewhere out through the screens 

that bring in the day 

which isn't real 

because a flood of heartbeats 

washes the room — 

a single tremelo 
which has components 
that cannot be separated. 
Ice-cream Sundays melt down the sides 
of tulip-glassed years, 
sticky and sweet 

and me. 

Nancy Lockhart 


I am embarrassed by this heart 

Beating about like an ugly dog 

Sniffing in so many garbage cans 

For a lick of life. 

This heart, which is old enough 

To be veiled 'in -yellow fat. 

This heart, grasping, releasing, 

Like the thickish fist of a masterbater, 

Brazen — 

Too ignorant to know 

Its function is purely clinical. 

I should like to remove this heart 

For a time, 

Train it to a trellis of decorum 

And enclose it 

In a shatterproof casing. 


Bev Garcia 


She lives apart from the mainstream 

in an inaginary paradise. 

A lonely scavenger, •*»•« - - •*** • 

circling the fringes of his life, 

swooping and darting at the remnants. 

A voluntary addict, 

living from day to day 

on injections of unconfirmed hope. 

He lives in a tightly spun web of 


ruled by the faceless spider 

that governs her paradise. 

Desire and frustration are constant 


Unanswered questions her only children. 

Time is a painful enemy, 

filled with mute phones, 

solitary holidays, 

and quick alibis. 

Unkind words are never spoken, 

for fear of losing 

what was never really won. 

Instead, she endures 

and she waits. . « 

for loving words and promises, 
dangled like forbidden fruit; 
for x/arm moments of belonging, 
a few minutes, a few hours, 
some nights. 




Jayne Woodcock 


I was loaned a new book today 

Delighted, I skimmed tl-.rcu.3h the pages at first 

Gaining a brief, sketchy knowledge 

Of plot, subplot, form and feeling 

The style with which the work was rendered was flawless and fascinating 

And I longed for an in-depth exploration of this newly discovered 

But the owngr of the book reappeared and reclaimed his property without 
^^ And wi£h a smile, and the flick of a pale, _ Dale blue eye --^ 

I heard a new song today 

While making my way down the street, I passed a young musician 

Wandering his solitary way through a melody 

His sax was sweet and mellow 

And I warmed to the flowing tune, for it was full of things that I had 

long wanted to hear 
But as I paused to listen, he felt my wonder 
Laid down his song with a smile 
And with the flick of a pale, blue eye — 
Wac gone 

It is a new world that I tread lightly in 

Not daring to displace a single blade of grass 

For fear the landscape will pack up and leave 

Before I can acquaint myself with every hill, every stone 

Every subtle shade and color it has to offer 

But not yet secure enough within your world to lift the grey veil of 

night not quite gone 
I'm waiting for the dawn to come 
In the form of a brief touch, a smile 
The flick of a pale blue eye, or — 

Adriane Say lor 


********* . » „, , ; 

S It • * * 

Maureen Mueller 

• * ■» v - * " (*? «** ' 


Moon comes down on a slide 


I sing me like the dew 
aching to be rainbows 
and not be forgotten 

the next day., 
I see turquoise water and 
dance all night to voodoo's rhythmic drums 

I sing 
my heart out 
to the air of Jaraica 

and Haiti. 
I jump as high as cricket 
in his black dancing boots 
and come dox-m 

with my Black foot 

and men tremble in all different shades 
of love and say things like: 


and aint you scared to be out so late 
and I answer with the voice of Kali 
and beam on through the night like a quasai' 
holding the wheel of the sky under ny feet 
tossing planets away like-walnuts 


0. Ko 

I agree. 

Too :nany hearts and flowers — 

Diversify — 

Too much mush and gush — 

Expand — 

Caught in a repetitious whirl of 

moon , June , spoon 
Philosophize — 
They want Socrates — 
Who needs more romance? 
Expound — 
Review the extant drcr.:as of Euripides 

(in verse) — 
(Is diversification always this dif- 

Be strong — 
write Plato ... 
(You'll learn to like it.) 
But . . . 

Here he comes again — 
Distraction is very attractive — 
Plato is ii- match -^ r mesmerizing eyes. 

Wan that Socrates who just fLew out the 


Judy Belfield 


Days of crazed fingers — 
boneless appendages 
jellyfishing for worms 
in the strawberry belly of B&aK 
It is all a dream: 

the schemers scheme, 

this screamers -srrreaift* 

and the night has eyes in its lip — 

at least a thousand e3'es , 

one for each Arabian twilight, 
to to watch the seventh veil fall , 

again and again, 

as a soft pall shades the sun, 

and billions of limp fingers 

fumble with the underpinnings of darkness, protesting their deficient state. 

trying to ignore death. The insects had been driven into 

Ah, yes — shady hiding places underground or into 

Life I crevices of brittle tree bark by the 

Days, dazed and hung over, August heat. This was not impor- 

after" drunk en skirmishes with half -mad thighs'. tant to him now, for the 

confused by impassioned arguments with eternity — insects would not have been 

Bev Garcia 


He inched his way through the brush, 
his belly scraping the dry, crxisted earth 
with every thruet,»of his aching „ limbs.. 
He was getting weaker and he knew it. 
Rolling his smooth, green striped head 
from side to side, he looked around at 
his new environment. Overhead, the wind 
blew its hot breath through the withered 
grass and spiky weeds. Water- starved 
leaves crackled loudly, as if 

pleasing to his palate in his 
fatigued condition. The sun's 
flames bore down on him through the 
trees, every beam causing new pain as it 
hit his already over-taxed body. 

Crawling forward, too exhausted to 
continue, but afraid to rest, he realized 
he had to find water very soon in order 
to survive. Rising high on his front 
legs, he poked his head toward the white, 
cloudlsjjL' cky. Standing motionless, he 
took deep gulps of the dusty air. The 
water was there, he smell ed it. But 
where? He had been smelling it- for avery 
long time, but had not yet coon 
when there is ncthi:r to conquer but oblivion — the all-important signs he had 

days drip like melting wax 
into tomorroxv 

with nary a scratch or a pin-prick. 
How are the days to be settled 
on the grand scorecard, 
when "day" is only a word, 
given like a name 

to a child at birth? 
How are the days to be justified? 
Stars do not try to hide 

from the shame of existence, 
but stare down time's infinite throat 
and bat their flirting eyesS 
And why do tne*"(iays* delude themselves 
with the idea that they may prevail , 

and beyond that, 

the void 


Maureen Mueller 

HE LEFT ME . . . 

A ::_U'c'tc-cho cup — ..'. 

owning several chips 
Gold- rimmed spectacles — 

greening with age 
Hi 3 railroad watch — 

still amazingly accurate 
The delicate fob — 

love's braided treasure 
His best-friend of a pipe — 

ling ^ring aromas_ of Pxi.nce Albert 
A faded photograph — 

IIi;_;ovJ.f , . . 


been searching for. The citizens 
of this place were all wrong for the 
water land. There were Sparrows and 
Grosbeaks, but no evidence of the sleek 
Terns or Herons that were a part of his 
world. He had heard the gentle "ribbit" 
of Treefrogs, but not the low, melodic 
croaking of the once- familiar Bullfrog 
to tell him that water was near. He 
scoured the air for anythirg that would 
give him hope. There was nothing. He 
had to keep going, to ignore the pain 
covering him like a warm blanket, there 
was no choice. To stay where he was 
would mean sure death. He must keep 
moving . . . 

He plodded along slowly, methodically 
never cursing the heavy shell he carried. 
The mosaic-like casing was his only pro- . 
tection from his enemies. Birds and 
raccoons found it a futile task to try to 
make a meal of him wh^j he pulled into 
his capsuloo It was his protect! -a, but 
it was also the very thing that was caus- 
ing him to weaken. His armor represented 
the bulk of his weight, and out of the 
water he so desperately needed, he was 
clumsy and sluggish. 

He tried to remember how long he had 
been traveling, and why he had ever left 
that cool, shady place he called hone. 
He gauged that the sun had coursed its 
ua , r across the sky at least five tines, 


Going Hone, continued 

but he really wasn't cure. The days and 
nights had all nelted together in his 
weariness. The memory of why he had left 
the river, the place where he had spent 
all of his long life, was hard to focus on. 
His mate and his children, they were at the 
river; weren't they? 

His tiny brain strove ' to piece the 
puzzle together. He' remembered the noise 

the night he \efju , T^r^^e, aJLwayoV* J 

noises on the river, that wasn't unusual in 
itselfo The noises came from the floating 
things that carried the soft humans over 
the water as they tried to trap the Catfish 
and the Bluegill that were his friends.; 
They always heard it coming, and getting 
out of the way had never presented any prob- 
lem for most of the river creatures. But 
that night was different, there was no 
warning. That floating thing had come si- 
lently down the river, blending \rlth the 
rippling water. His family had swum inno- 
cently through the night, feeding and play- 
ing in the gentle current as he watched 
from his moist, sandy bed at the river's 
edge. The memory became vivi", as a pic- 
ture formed in his mind. The water had 
churned up suddenly, trapping them in its 
wake. He could do nothing but watch in 
silent horror as his family was tern apart 
by the twirling blades, their shells crack- 
ing like the eggs they had all once been. 
He lumbered up the embankment, heading 
away from the river. That place was safe 
no longer. It was all so long ago; days 
ago, a lifetime ago ... 

He blinked hie turtle eyes, the irises 
narrowing a3 he watched f®i» signs ©f^water^,* 
for signs of anything familiar to his 
natural instincts. He dug in with his 
clawc, pulling and pushing his stubby legs 
to move ever forward. Uphill, downhill, 
but forever forward to the cool safety of 
a silken pond, a swift stream, a stagnant 
pool, anything but this hideaous, dry void. 

There began a strangeness; something 
he couldn't understand. Suddenly he saw 
that he was no longer able to dig into the 
ground with hie claws... The. _dry. earth had 

turned into come sort of black stone. 
The heat coming off this foreign mater- 
ial was almost unbearable. It seemed 
to cut into the bottom of his oholi as 
easily as the sharp prongs, carried by 
humans, had entered the tender flesh of 
the river frogs. He could hear the 
noises again, like the river noises, 
only this time he couldn't move fast 
enough €o avd'id them. The noises came 
from every d££ectxon'r" They were" not 
like the floating things of the river. 
These moved much swif ter and di I not 
skim the black material, but ran firmly 
on it. He pulled tightly into his shell, 
eyes clamped shut, knowing that one of 
the moving things would soon end his 
struggle. He would die here, it had 
become an inevitable action. He almost 
welcomed the thought. He had been wrong; 
there was no water, death was his only 
safety now. 

The sun turned orange in the after- 
noon sky as the heat shimmered up from 
the roasting surface. He hadn't moved 
for a very long time, the noises becoming 
so commonplace that he didn't consciously 
hear them. His mind had left this hos- 
tile setting and taken him back to the 
river , where in the cool evening he 
swan with his family once more, floating 
in the peacefulness of the smooth current. 
Listening to the frogs sing their hoarse 
symphonies, he dived for the spindly 
water bugs and larvae. Crawling up on 
the rotted log that was his home, he 
pushed his back feet out, spreading his 
webbed £pes yks. a; Japanese, fan,, and. en-. . ,.. 
joy.ud the setting sun as it sparkled 
across the opaque liquid. Ac large, ir- 
ridescent dragonfliec droned softly over- 
head, he watched a plump, green leaf 
glide slowly through the air, landing 
quietly on the gentle water. The rustling 
of the reeds , as they bent in the humid 
breeze lulled him into a soothing sleep. 

The smelly tires brushed up against 
the curled edge of his parched shell, 
while licking tongues of heat penetrated 
inside to the soft tissues; but he was 
content with his situation. He had gone 

Chris Moore 


» 7* #w\ /v r* *\ 

Brothers of the Sea 

Together , all , 

The whole family. 

Grandpa and grandma nust be looking 

Down from above. 

Today they will see the best. 

My cousin, the dope peddler, isn't here. 

I've got relatives who have been in jail, 

But, today that doesn't count. 

Because this day, 

Everybody's looking proud, proud* 

We've got to do thi rr 




Golden shafts of light, 

Rending clouds and tearing trees , 

Talons of the sun. 



River of rhythm, 
Melody of butterflies, 
Nature ' a symphony . 



Teri Moore 


Street sounds 

Sail the breezes 

Through the window screen. 

They wander, piecemeal , 

heckling my ears. 

A garage party rove up 

Down the, Ijlock. 

Cars pass, 

"Top Ten" notes crowing in. 

There is laughter next door, 

Whole rhythms to absorb. 

I've lived in silence 

Concentrating on work too long, 

My rebirth must be taken 

In measured paces. 


Randy Varju 


Oh give me a clone 

Of my own flesh and* bone *•«*• * 

with its y chromosome changed to x« 

And when it's full grown 

my own little clone 

will be of the opposite sex. 

Clone, Clone of my own, 

with its y chromosome changed to x 

And when I'm alone 

xTith my own little clone 

We'll both think of nothing but sex. 

Teri Moore 


Be didn't really look hurt, 

At first. 

He looked as if 

Some playful body 

Had sprinkled drops of raspberry nail 

On his dark forehead. 

The wound puckered open, slowly. 

Harsh red blood slid down his face, 

And streamed off his cheeks 

Into droplets on the pavement. 

The fat cop growled, 

"Put him* in the wagon. n 

They bundled him in — wet laundry. 

His head bounced off of the floor. 

The cops hopped in and veered away, 

Tires screeching. 

Ripe raspberry changed to 

Bust on the sidewalk. 


Teri Moore 


Chri3 Moore 


He approached slowly, 
polish His course of action 

Undo tor* :ine d . 

A shot rang out. 
Swiftly he dodged 
Right, then left. 

Instantly reassessing the situation, 

He dashed for the door, 

Crashing through 

As if her were a battering ram. 

Inside, he looked. 

Thoro was nothing. 
There was something ... 
His imagination? 
A flashback? 


No shades. 
Drawn blue blinds 
Invite notions of 
Sweet secrecy. 

Pale blue blinds, 

No sun's warmth in those rooms, 

A paired sultriness perhaps? 

Imperturbable blue blinds 

A sensuous signal 

To a mysterious lover? 

Promise of an af .ternooxL-rendevous-7 

Blue blinds 

** ** * *** 


Teri Moore 


Her derisive laughter doesn't endear her 

to anybody. 
"Girrrrrl," she drawls out, condescend- 
Snapping her gum sharply in a two-time 

rhythm * 
Thin silver bracelets clatter raucously 
With her constant gestures. 
Avon rings on every finger. 
She likes to "party hearty." 
She pretends the men didn't intersect heir J 
When she leaves for home, alone 
•Ta._s.tudy her reflection in the mirror. 



Judy Bel field 

Sitting in the marble-walled church, 

high, chocolate-colored pillars veined with black . 
. gold-leaf glimmering in paintingo on the dome 
over the tall, triple- "tisrod altar, 
nichec tucked behind intricately- carved Romanesque arches — 

• •*-*» «0 * lacy, rococco^recesses . .... ._._ . ... ., :.".~ 

which house the statues of sweet-faced saints 
.,, t and Jesus Chrict — 

St. Agnes in pink robes, 
a lamb in the crook of her arm, 

bearded St. Joseph holding a lily-laden staff — 
the gold tabernacle twinkling 

as the sunlight plays through stained-glass windows .. 
and dances softly along the communion rail., 
The church is empty 
and too silent, 
but I hear children singing in the choir loft, 

a yesterday echo of a solemn "Dies Irae" — 
and giggles skittering through their numbers 
as a new widow weeps below ... 

incongruent sounds of life and death 

touching each other here in the waiting room of heaven, 

from which all will go their separate ways, 

save one 

who shall everafter 3leep in the arms of eternity. 

There is a fragrance in this church 
which isn't incense, 
but a concoction of memories thrown together — 

masses, living rosaries, stations of the cross, confessions. 
The odor is in the x/alls 
and in me„ 
It can never be washed out 

■-'" * like the -linsr.s - — - - if- - -...- - — -•-: - 

or the God who lived here once upon a time. 


Kathy Similar 


In refuge from the imprisonment of aluminum A satin-blue dragonfly in its fluctuating 
siding and the incessant clamor of contempo- and leisurely glide, hovers near my 
rary television, I escape the confines of proximity, teasingly, but never too near, 
civilized existence — conditioned neuroti- The airy yet proficient flight of the 
ciam and monotony — for a taste of the un- dragonfly, 
tamed and unrefined, to quench an almost in- 
satiable hunger for gothic honey. Red ground-squirrels bolt helter-skelter 

for the safety of the uhderbruch as their 
In anxious anticipation this September after-acute sense of hearing alerts them of 
noon, I traverse the rustic woodlands I have forthcoming peril, 
explored vigorously and revered time and 
again, clothed in flannel and azure corduroy. In the distance, a watchful rabbit with 

gray- tinged fur, nostrils twitching fe- 
The rustling of crisp leaves neath my ragged verishly, gnaws at the vegetation raven- 
suede boots mingles with the chorus of the ously. The instant my precence is de- 
crickets' chirrup and the trill of unseen tected, he bounds frantically toward the 
birds. Though of countless variety and foliage, revealing an ivory-stained under- 
number, each possesses his own distinct side with every swift vault. In moments 
voice and vivid coloration. he has vanished in the thicket. 

Amidst this melodic timberland symphony, I Atop the summit of two golden sunflowers 
am allowed to witness an elegant monarch sticky threads are carefully draped, 
butterfly fluttering gaily among the foliage a banana spider's artistic web. They 
and after much deliberation, settling con - strike one as being c j joined by his meshy 
tentedly upon n leaf that . dances- gracefully net. 
in the breeze. 


Gothic Honey, continued 

The oun blares loudly in the warmth of In- 
dian summer and I am gratefully refreshed 
by the wind's cool breath. 

Huge dark stalks of linb and bark bend to 
greet ne cordially, occassionally permit- 
ting a gust of wind to shower me with a 
colorful array of leaves. Within the 
►•-lofty p*ln> of forked limbs is a robin's 
nest, grasped snugly and protectively. 
These trees, sublime and adorned, seem al- 
most ageless. 

How quickly the sun sank from sight. Ob- 
livious to its absence, I anticipate noc- 
turnal beings preparing to. emerge. The 
brilliant crescent resting in the heavens 
begins its frosty luminosity. 

Once olive-green foliage, now shades darker 
and richer, as if shadows themselves. Sun- 
flowers at dusk now candescent, glowing in 
the blackness; yellow flames flickering in 
the breeze. 

The wind respires calmer now, exhausted 
after a gusty day. 

The moonglcw brightens, a frosty hue, as if 
compacted ice. 

Diurnal birds hasten to find a secure roost 
for the duration of ebony skies, some lull- 
ing themselves into slumber with their own 
ooothing aria. 

Fireflies become ephemeral candles in 
the twilight's pitch black. 

Newly polished stars slowly begin vibrant 
glistening in their own rhythm and synco- 
pation, yet silently so. 

Gentle, yet distinctly audible tapping 
upon the trees, assures ^me^a woodpecker 
has not yet laid his work aside. Curio- 
sity oven/helms me. Why am I not per- 
mitted a glimpse of this camouflaged 
laborer? Or perhaps it is only the 
flapping of wings, a straggler who has 
not yet located a comfortable or proper 
temple in which to savor his hours of 
tranquility, gliding from tree to tree. 

I could easily remain youthful within 
nature's serene antiquity. 

I am tempted so, to linger her infinitely, 
I would never weep for human companion- 
ship. God has blessed this woodland 
with numerous creatures I may love and 
seek out in dawn's dim light or dusk's 
fading paleness. Countless new endeavors 
and curiousities to satisfy. 

Loneliness perished the moment I pene- 
trated this feral kingdoa. 

I have at long last become one with 


Chris Moore 


I've always been a moving man, 

Traveled down all sorts of roads, 

Gazed upon nature's scenery from coast to coast. 

I've taken trails up into the mountains, 

And down into the deep lush valleys. 

Towns and cities I've traveled by the score. 

I've been where they are big and small, 

Reveled at the peacefulness of deserted streets 

In New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Houston, 

San Francisco, Denver, Honolulu, Detroit, and 


My mind was overjoyed at streets filled to capacity 

In towns like Prairie View, Quitman, Valdosta, 

Mouonco, Madison, Aspen, Fort Valley, Tallahassee, 

and Montgomery. 

I swam in the intimidating waters of the Atlantic 

And the Pacific. 

I saw the Golden Arch in St. Louis, 

Though it didn't seem like no gateway to me. 

R. Walser Yale 


Today it snowed 

And like Snow White, 

Traction died 

And was preserved 

In a glassy coffin. 

The entire city, 

Shocked , 

Cars shrouded in white, 

Turned out for her 

Funeral — 

A mournful ■ sloth 


And though we thought hln 

Dead — 

We prayed 

For Prince Charming' s 

Sunny kiss. 


I've seen the bright sun rise 

Over the nighty, longleaf southern pine 

And descend behind the great western sequoia. 

My eye3 have feasted upon Through it all, I 

The abundant grainfields of the PLains-S-tates.^ 

And rested upon waves and waves feeor^j^jiighlL-air; 

Of white cottonf ields. of the South. 

My skin has felt the desert heat 
And much too much of the" North's ch.i Fl- 
ing cold, 
still remember the 



Tcri Moore 


Buzzing mowers leave a slippery trail of damp pungent grass. 

Mothers call through back doors to wily curious toddlers. 

White ice cream carts compete with shrilling chimes. 

Black-bellied grills exhume hot cpicey BBQ. 

Bare feet find stray flower petals. 

Crickets hide in the basement. 

Wet paint snares bugs. 

Summer senses awaken 

Then suddenly, 



Geri Harder 


Aint the sun gonna ever shine? 
It took the big vacation. 
Maybe it went to Florida 

And is never coming back. 

Beach Bum. 

Beach Sun. 

Not that HE'S my sunshine 

Or anything so bourgeois. 

(lovely word) 


Ce Soir. 

Mon Cher. 


Oh I I'm off on tangents. 

I'm on speed. 

(I'm in Econ 103) 

Supply and Demand. 

I Denan 1 construction workers 

Outside this window 

But the Supply i° low 

Because it's raining^ 


Kathy Siedler 


Nancy Lockhart 


Majestic moon, how well I know your many 
facas, though with each nightfall your 
countenence alters. 

How many times have I gazed at you blankly 
or with wild-eyed animosity? 

I feel your expressionless eyes upon me to- 
night, but you seem not to acknowledge my 
presence. You sit back in sublime repose 
and behold as I dream of distant shperes or 
stumble unsucessfully over broken and mist- 
paths of my inner self. 

You do not reaccurc nor coddle me as a 
deluge of bitter tears stream down my con- 
torted fare. 

How many times have. I. a tared up at you, 


In the manner of a maharani 

She dismisses the raw moon 

Like a small catch returned to sea. 

Her day she bakes cracker-dry, 

Searing the huddled sheaves 

As casually as she lights her candelabra 

In whimsey she splits the earth 

Beneath her dancing toe. 

At lakes, who hope to 

Hold her fleeting face, 

She laughs 

Without apology. 

Nancy Lockhart 


Let the Monarch migration begin. 

Bring out the school busses, 

The Ticondaroga pencils, 

It's yellow time. 

The days of mums and marigolds and 

Topaz twilights. 

The nights of ripe melon moons. 

Time to set the golden flame 

Back under the furnace. 

We're in for yellow apples 

And acorn squash 

And festivals of yellow beer. 

The days of rain slickers are upon us. 

See the sulfur in the black cat's eyes. 

This is the season of saffron ... 

It's yellow time. 


longing for advice on trivial cocial af- 
fairs, hoping all the while you would 
annihilate the fruitless tree of society? 

Why have you concealed your face behind 
clouds? Are you weary of my tirade.? 
Should I also blot you out as I would a 
painful recollection? 

Shall I walk away with your laughter 
pounding against my back, echoing out 
into an ocean of blackness? Or shall 
I acquire your attention by tossing 
stones angrily at you? Or damn your 
cursed supremacy? Would you have i 10 
humble myself before you as if you were 
a god? Would you then answer? 


Illumination, continued 

Speak, you arrogant hoard of insensitivity, 
or is your supreme, wisdom a caricature? A 
hideous mockery? 

Yet, how presuptuous I am to feel you owe 
consideration of any sort to such an addled 
dolt. It is I who lack compassion* A 
spineless drudge seeking liberty from one 
who is not free to. give it. 

How tiresome your burden must be, to 

shower an entire world with radiance. 

Perhaps then, you have spoken, I juat 
have not heard. 

Or perhaps in your reticence you have 
shown that the moon is indeed light, 
but only that so I may see the path that 
I alone must travel to resolve inner 
conflicts and possibly stumble upon,.a 
soul unattached to this insignificant 
dungeon of flesh. 

Teri Moore 


The sun dips slowly 

A scoop of orange sherbet 

Melting into night. 


** /* *t 4\4\4% *v *» 

Brothers of the Sea 


Moonlight painted cloud, 
Emporer of the Evening, 
Mountain of the Sky. 

R. Walser Yale 



Chicago is a massive hand with five 
skinny fingers that caress her state. Her 
thumb (1-94) thumps straight north to the 
Wisconsin border, her index finger (1-90) 
stretches steadily west, then bends north- 
ward to scratch Beloit into Wisconsin. 
She playfully give the finger (1-80) to 
Davenport, Iowa. Her ring finger (1-55) 
tickles St. Louis and her little finger 
(1-57) dips into the Missouri and Kentucky 
rivers that make up the lush southern bor- 
ders of the long land that is Illinois, 

In between the ring finger and the 
little finger, about a hundred miles north- 
east of St. Louie and nearly drowned in 
a network os supposedly dustless roads, 
there is a town called Coffeen. Coffeen, 
Illinois. Montgomery County. 

Unlike most of the 600 or so inhabi- 
tants of Coffeen, Steven D arrow was awake 
at 2:30 a.m. He had worked that Saturday 
night at Coffeen' s Mode Theater, a place 
Steven laughingly called "the most culture 
these parts never seen," using that exag- 
gerated twang and dumb southerner dialect 
to replace his own soft Illinoisan tones. 
"A moment's levity beats a cavity, "he 
would say amidst a barrage of high-pitched 

The Mode showed midnight movies on 
Saturday, and Steven would be there at the 
door, greeting friends, tearing tickets, 
or cleaning up the entrance of smashed 
popcorn. This particular Saturday night/ 
Sunday morning, Steven was hurrying his 
post-movie clean-up duties so he could hit 
the road to Assumption, 45 miles north of 

"Where you headin' to, Steven," asked 
the candy counter girl. 

"Cousins in Assumption. Having a big 
all-w«ekend party,, and I figure that by 


Sunday they'll be all tired, so I'm 
goin' up to . . ." 

"Liven up the party, huh, Steven?" 
she giggled. 

"Sure am," he said and slid into 
a long "hee-hee" giggle. 

When the theater closed, Steven 
climbed into his pick-up, and instinct- 
ively made his wdy to the dustless roads 
that would take him north to Illinois 16, 
which would lead him to Pana and U. S. 51, 
which would take him straight into Assump- 
tion, his cousin's house, a warm bed, 
and hot breakfast with beer when he woke. 

Highway 16 is a two- lane road, most- 
ly frequented by farmers and their sons — 
but by nobody by the hour that Steven 
was using it. Steven, in the slightly 
beat Ford, cruised up 16 northeast to 
Pana. It seemed to him that he'd been 
on the road a long time, but he'd just 
gotten on. 

"Shit," he said. "Shit, shit, shit.' : 

Again he started into an extended 
hee-hee laugh that bordered on hysteria. 

He reached for the mike of his CB; 
the one his father installed as a sur- 
prise for his graduation. He hoped for 
a traveller or truck driver to be within 
his range. If he talked, he might be 
able to fight off his sleepiness. 

"Break, one-nine, this is Weavin' 
Steven; anybody got some thin' they wanna 
get of fa their chest? Hee, hee, heei" 

He'd been awake for hours longer 
than usual and he was tired, giddy, and 
highly imaginative. 

"Break, one-nine, this is Weavin' 
Steven, testing, testing, testing. This 
1 C Weavin 1 Steven, you tell me your name, 
then we'll be even — Steven." No answer, 


Up from Coffeen, continued 

but more uncontrollabe laughter. 

Unable to contact anybody, he started 
to whistle, look at his teeth in the mir- 
ror, and preen his hair. He listened to 
the far-off sounds and voices drifting in 
and out of his radio — thinking how much 
they sounded like people he knew. Neigh- 
bors , friends , family. 

"Shit," he said again. 
- Just* thfell a particularly loud voice » 
crackled into the cab of his truck. "Watch 
out now. Ha, ha, you gotta watch for them 
types of women, ha, ha." 

"Some redneck," Steven thought, "but 
better than talking to myself." He reach- 
ed for the mike, fumbled, dropped it out 
of reach, into the darkness before the 
passenger seat. 

He casually leaned over, mumbing -ob- 
scenities , and reached down groping for 
the mike with his right hand, left hand on 
the- wheel* 

The truck swerved gently to the right, 
"went off of the narrow highway, careened 
into a ditch, and slammed into an embank- 
ment of earth. 

-— - Steven awoke to stabbing pains in his 
"chest. Blood had pooled in his mouth, was 
running out of his nose in a slow, sticky 
stream. He retched, and the bl-^d splashed 
onto the floor of the truck. 

"Shit," he thought. 

He looked about the cab, trying not to 
move his torso to avoid the excruciating 
pain he know he would fool. He was cradled 
inside the steering wheel, a twisted egg- 
shaped piece* of metal and plastic. 

The windshield in front of him had a 
large web-like pattern of splinters. In 
its center sat a large, hairy red spider, 
which upon closer examination, Steven 
realized was a piece of his scalp. Outside 
the window, he could see the hood of his 
"truck pushed up, back, smashed in wild sur- 
prise. Steam still billowed from beneath 

His radio crackled in the darkness. 
It had survived the accident. Steven 
rolled his eyes toward the static and 
noise of the radio. 

He watched it for a minute, grew 
tired, and decided to sleep. "Oh, Lord," 
he mumbled, "I gotta get outta this 
ditch ... ju3t put 'er in gear here . . 
. get off the brake ... fill 'er up . . „ 
go. Gotta go . . . party . . . party . . 
.. Am I, be these?" 

He started to laugh, but the pain that 
filled his rib cage, cilenced him immediate- 
ly. Tears foxxied in hie eyes. Slowly, 
laboriously, he lifted his right arm, win- 
cing, choking grunts of pain. He felt his 
liead. There was a large, hairless cut on 
the top of his head, a bump that strangely 
he couldn't feel. 

His arm fell to the seat and he reach- 
ed for the mike to the radio that was, yet 
again, corains to life. Thi a tine somebody 

"Hey there, now, hey there ..." 
Sounded like some truck driver *&aia 

"Can't quite make it, can you?" the 
voice said. 

Steven's arm fell short of the mike 
by more than a foot. He brought his arm 
back to his side. 

The voice broke in again, much clear- 
er now: "Yeah, well, relax, buddy ... 
you much further ^to. go,_ha, ha." 

For Steven, the conversation was 
relaxing, even if he could have no part 
in it. The pain wasn't bad if he didn't 
move, and if he slept a bit, somebody 'd 
find him. When he closed his eyes, slow 
patterns of color would move before him. 
They had strange voices — like country 
music celebrities. 

"Where ya headin' anyway, boy?" the 
voice continued. "You stoppin' in Pana? 
Nice place to visit, wouldn't wanna live 
there ..." 

"Nope, not me ... I don't like 
Pana « • » prefer a little nicer place . 
o ." the voice announced. 

Steven thought that, perhaps, the 
truck driver talked too much — but he 
was glad he did. Those colors, though — 
the way they looked, "Shit, if I could 
take one with me. Pain? What pain? 

"Can't stop once you'v^ started 
something ... y ou started, now, haven't 
ya? I tell you, man, i know a nice 
place you can go ... if you believe in 
it, man." 

"Once when I was young ..." Steven 
was quietly speaking to hwaself ,- and the 
colorful voice, "we ... me and my mo- 
ther and father ... sisters, we'd sit, 
talk all day on picnic — or we'd play „ 
. .something." 

He sat for a moment , the entire cab 
quiet. No radio, no conversation. 
Thoughts meandered around in his head and 
were voiced, incomplete. 

"And if you look real hard," he con- 
tinued, "you can see them fish ... kind; 
like the color ... those reds, blues . 
. o turning, uh, white, I guess." A 
sharp pain silenced him again. 

The truck driver interrupted Steven' c 
monologue: "Nice place ... past Pana, 
up U, s. 51. Sure, good food, whole 
thing ..." 

Steven was silent, intently listen- 
ing to the voice. It was talking to 
him: "Boy, it hurts, don't it?" A 
tear ran down Steven's cheek. The voice 
continued: "You shouldn't oughta x/orry 
'bout a thing, boy; life goes on, and on 
and on, ha! ha! 

You, uh, just can't stop living 
over something like that. Nope — can't 
stop living at all." The voice was 
soothing to Steven's ear: i flowing, 
changing rhythm patterns, gentle beat. 
Sounds muffled, pushed, teased tc words.. 

Steven's eyes opened for the last 
time. He listened for a moment to the 


( continued) 

Up From Coffeen, continued 

voice, to get it straight. "You mean?" 
he said, "they're gonna find ne, here — " 

The voice interrupted,, "If you don't 
believe it — you will, if you d^n't . . „ 
you won' t Got it, boy — O.K. , go you 
juct ride up 51, that's right . . . " 

Steven ignored the end of the voices, 
hie mind tired, and resigned himself to a 

simple, "No „ . . uh, yes, yes, "then 
closed his eyes. 

In between the ring finger and the 
little finger, about a hundred miles 
northeast of St c Lcuis U P from Coffeen, 
past Pana, there is a tovm called 
Assumption. Assumption, Illinois. 
Christian County. 

Julie Wroble 

I'll ding my midnight blues again 
I'll sing 'til the darkness turns to dayl 
Sing aloag , sing along 
Hear my drunken fight. 

I'll sing about the pretty lies I tell 

and about a friend of mine. 
Try and take me as I am — 
accept my piece of mind. 

I need to talk of my troubles. 
I ruined another opportunity for love, 
but he seemed to box my spirits. 
Why can't I feel love? 


Sharon Fink 


See, I couldn't stand him socially. 
My act could only go so far. 
My show was fading quickly. 
He found me in the bar. 

My icy breath. cut him like a razor. 
The drinks put me in a crazy frame of 

mind, . 
I wailed on that poor boy hard . „ . 
That's something in me I wish he didn't 


Now I'm lonely, bored and sad. 

I've lost the best boy I've ever had. 
His music still flows inside my mind. 

Poison alcohol makes me bad. 


The round table was covered with a blue- 
checkered tablecloth and set with the 
familiar "Blue Willow" patterned dishes. 
The winter sun peeked through the small*- 
paned windows and filtered through the 
cris:.), white curtains. A hint of spring, 
with its long, green tentacles of ivy, was 
hanging in macrame. 

Ellen hummed a familiar tune as she 
filled the juice glasses with orange li- 
quid. The smell of bacon frying drifted 
up the back stairway to greet Dan as he 

"Breakfast in ten minutes," Ellen 
shouted from the bottom of the stairs. 
Seldom a day passed that Ellen was not 
grateful for the convenient back stair 
that jutted into the big kitchen. The old 
house was so big that many extra steps were 
required to use the main -stairway in the 
front hall. 

Dan mumbled a loud, "OK, honey," and 
was off to the shower. Thank goodness it 
was Saturday, he thought, as he felt the 
hot water run over his sleepy body. It 
was hard to get out of the shower — it 
felt so good. After finally forcing Ma- 
self from under the warm, wet massage, he 
switched the spray to cold. The shock 
made his skin tingle. He \^aa refreshed. 
After pulling on his jeans and gray swaat- 
shirt^-be trotted ^doifflu-txv-tha-JcLt chenu 

Randy Varju 


Floating on the air as a 
ship in the sea 

Turning aimlessly 

Dancing fearlessly 

Magic rainbow come land 
land by me 
and live in my hand 
of the brave and free. 

Or, be picked from the Windshield 
of an imported German car. 

Manicured nails 

white tie and tails. 
And stepped on by the souls of 
pat.p.nt leathers, that talk- with a squeak. 


Breakfast was almost ready as Ellen 
poured steaming coffee into the cups. 
The toast popped up with perfect timing 
For Ellen and Dan„ everything Was good 
this morning — it had been good last 
night, and all was right in their sunny, 
snow-covered world. They chatted and 
laughed over breakfast. The lovely 

, of— the^niglrt -before was replaced 


( continued) 

Time For Love, continued 

by genuine comradeship. Not only did they 
love each other deeply, but they liked 
each other too* Their life was fun to- 

Dan felt a smile cross his face as 
he gazed at Ellen. He loved looking at 
her. Her face was interesting — he 
thought she was beautiful. Her bright eyes 
and quick wit displayed a keen intelli- 
gence. The sun "haloed" her sandy-colored 
hair, making it glow with 3treak3 of gold. 

They ate cold cereal for breakfast on 
week days -- it saved time "and prevented 
•jYoriiv'u'.gia^ in the cholesterol of eggs, 
Ellen was determined to take very good 
care of Dan! Between the two f them, 
they lugged the groceries home. 

After storing the food in the pro- 
per places, the headed for the campus 
library. The enow made a crisp sound 
underfoot, and the sun shone on it ^"fla- 
king blue shadows. They walked hand in 

They planned their day excitedly: they hand, each feeling the warmth of the 

would shop for a few groceries, take a walk 
and visit the library Dan was researching 
a project for his college students while 
Ellen was looking for something entertain- 
ing to read. She had only been out of 
college a year end was teaching the sixth 

other's hand through their woolen gloves. 
Familiarity had not yet diminished the 
thrill of even the slightest touch. 
There were sounds of children playing 
and running through the fluffy snow. 
Sleds skidding past them frightened the 

grade. She loved her work, but needed some- winter birds from the pine trees. The 

thing far removed from school for the times 
when Dan had his nose in a book. 

Dan was seven years older than Ellen's 
twenty-five. He had finished his college 
days with a master's degree in cheuistr-y, 
working as a graduate assistant. That job 
led into the fine position he had now -- 
teaching chemistry at the University. The 
couple had been married only a few months 
and had not fallen into the schedules of 
faculty society. 

"There is plenty of time for that 
later," decided Dan, and Ellen agreed. 

The big, old house they had bought 
was Ellen's idea. She had fallen in love 
with the large, sunny kitchen, the huge, 
stone fireplace in the living room, and 
the four bedrooms upstairs that ached to 
be filled with children. A family was def- 
initely in their plans, but they were in 
no hurry — maybe next year. 

"Well, are you ready, Sweetie?" Dan 
chided as he rumpled her hair. He volun- 
teered to clear the table while she went 
to get dressed. Ellen climbed the stairs 
to the second floor. She closed the bed- 
room door and slipped out of Dan's pa jama 
shirt that she had worn to bed. The full- 
length mirror revealed a nicely rounded, 



She was grateful 

for the fact that whatever she had, seemed 
to please Den. 

"You're just what I need," he would 
say when he came home from a less-thr.n- 
perfect day. He'd grab her gently, make 
her feel very much a woman and very much 
what he needed. She loved it! As Ellen 
pulled on her black turtleneck, she thought 
how they would miss their sudden and 
c^ontancouc love-making after the children 
came. She put on a pair of faded jeans 
and suede boots, ran a brush through her 
tousled lock3, and romped down the back 

Dan grinned as he watched his bride 
slip into her ski jacket and neck scarf. 
Off they went to the market down the 
street. Their grocery li3t consisted of 
milk, fresh fruit (oranges for Ellen and 
bananas for Dan) canned 3oup, and cereal. 

wind was getting stronger, and dark 
clouds were moving in. "Looks like 
more snow," mused Dan. "Those clouds 
are full of it!" 

Ellen replied, "I hope we get back 
home before a storm hits. I don't relish 
walking home in a blizzard." 

"I think a blizzard might be nice," 
Dan kidded with a wink. "We could spend 
all day tomorrow in front of the fire. 
It would be cozy and nice — just you 
and me." His eyebrows raised with 
thoughts of untold pleasures. 

The library was nearly empty. Stu- 
dents, who normally were there, were 
anxious about the black clouds and had 
gone back to their dorms early. Dan men- 
tioned the scant attendance to the li- 
brarian who relayed the radio's message 
of a winter storm warning. Dan decided 
to take the books home rather than stay- 
ing and possibly getting caught in a 
storm. Ellen browsed the fiction area 
and found a great novel that she had 
always wanted to They noticed 
the snow starting to fall outside the 
large glass windows of the library and 
left for home. 

The sky had grown dark now, street 
lights flickered on and off, and the 
early afternoon sunshine had turned to 
cold and wind. The blowing snow stung 
their faces. The damp coldness bit 
through their jeans. Ellen shivered. 

The hurried trip home was more 
solitary than the one going had been. 
The children had been called inside by 
anxious mothers. The birds were roost- 
ing in the protection of the pine trees. 
Only those still on their way home were 
braving the threatening weather. As the 
snow and wind became stronger, the cars 
moved slowly, cautiously, through the 
streets. Ellen pulled her neck scarf 
up around her ears and turned her collar 

"You warm enough?" Dan asked. 
"I'm fine," Ellen lied, as she won- 
dered what he intended to do about it 
if she weren't. The books Dan carried 


( continued ) 

rime For Love, continued 

in one am were burdensome, but he nonaged 
tc ".keep the other one around hie wife as 
the snow drifted quickly across the side- 
walk* In all honesty, Dan would be glad 
to get home. 

Lights were blinking on in the houses 
as they passed. At last, their refuge 
was in sight, offering warnth and safety. 
By the time they reached the front door, 
the barren trees were dark against the 
fast-moving clouds. The black branches 
bowed and swayed frantically in the wind. 
Snow was piling high in drifts. 

Dan unlocked the door to let Ellen in- 
side first. The warmth cane rushing out at 
them, and they quickly bolted the door shut. 
"I'll start a fire," offered Dan, laying his 
hooks on the hall table. 

"I think we need some cocoa," Ellen 
added, "and perhaps an English muffin." 
Dan exclaimed. 

Soon a fire was crackling in the big 
fireplace and both Dan and ElLen had 

changed to warm, dry .clothes and heavy 
socks. The hot chocolate warned them 
down deep inside. They were snuggled 
on the couch under a blanket, oblivion;; 
to the now raging snowstorm. Even the 
books were forgotten. They shared the 
happy, quiet time in complete harmony. 
Each sensed the other's contentment. 

Ellen was curled up with Dan's arms 
around her. He reached down and lifted 
her smiling face to his. He kissed her 
forehead gently, then pressed his lips 
firmly, tenderly, to hers. After a long 
moment, Dan \7i1j. r u-o ■ -quietly, "Maybe 
if we're lucky, the blizzard v/ill last 
a couple of days." 

"Sounds wonderful," agreed Ellen. 
"You know," she added, "I've had a fan- 
tastic day." 

Dan nodded in agreement. Who could 
ask for more, he wondered. What a won- 
derful time to love! 


Teri Moore 


Randy Varju 


The fragrance of fresh- 
ly blossomed f lowers , and the 
afternoon sun shedding its 
radiant shower of warmth upon 
my balding head, encouraged 
me to ignore the regulations 
I agreed to enforce as a patron 
of ilcturcsi 1 .e Nursing Home, and formulate 
an adventure through the woodlands as I 
once did as a youngster. 

I found it fairly elemental to elude 
the attention of the nurses by pretending 
tc be insane as my roommate was. 

Nice fellow, he was, even though he 
found it difficult to control the excess 
of his ccllvary glands. 

I recall one specific instance parti- 
cularly. Our favorite nurse, as we often 

People seldom plant flowers in the projects. 

Identities are buried in the hard-packed, dusty soil, 

Green newcomers, want to "spruce things up" at first, 

And wilting, forgetful senior citizens, 

On trembly knees, 

Scrape the earth to center a tulip or two. 

Then thorny little boys run — 

Snatch 'em up — 

And skip door to door , 

Selling "roses" for a dollar. 

•frk irk &ki r k 

My oh my, my mind wanders so. I 
have strayed from the subject once again, 

Now, where was i? Oh yes, I ad- 
vanced toward the pathway and proceeded 
down the trail that was to be observed 
only by those considered to be competent 
and independent. The only restriction I 
had from these categories was the wheel 
chair that old age had blessed ne with. 

Unfortunately for myself, the pre- 

called her, came into our room; she was very cipitation from a few nights before had 

shapely and just beyond puberty, I would 
presume. Well , 3he attempted to remove the 
remnants of his lunch from his mouth as he 
went into a seizure. 

I do believe we had spaghetti that 

Getting back to my original subject, I 
succeeded to get by the nurses simply be- 
cause I blended into the surroundings. I 
then advanced toward a 'narrow path leading 
away from the picnic grove. 

We had a friendly picnic that after- 
noon to socialize with incoming natients. 
I was successful in winning. .throe times- at 

accumulated in puddles of mud which ad- 
hered to the wheel 3 of my chair, and 
eventually reached the portion of the 
wheel my hand grasped in order to gain 
momentum. However, at the time, soiled 
hands was a very small bk struct ion. My 
only concern was to enjoy my surrounding 

A few moments later, as I was re- 
uiovirvj the dark soil from my hands on 
to my double-knit dry-clean-only pants, 
I became aware of all the beauty I was 
surrounded by. I saw so many trees. I 
used to be able to name most of them, bo 
naturally I was upset when I recognizee 
only the maples, oaks, and pines. The 


( continued ) 

Climbing Stares, continued 

sun's beano gently streamed through open- 
ings in the tall trees reflecting off the 
backs of squirrels fleeing fron the sounds 
of twigs splitting under the wheels of ny 
chair . ... 

Just then, I heard the rippling sounds 
of water and was inmediately overcome with 
a childish obsession to wade my feet 
-through the. water. I decided to follow 
the sounds of what I imagined woul " be a 
small creek. 

Finally, I had reached the closest 
possible point to the creek. My childish 
obsession had now brought me to a very 
tall wired fence. By this time, I was so 
extremely tired and dismayed, I had decided 
to simply sit there and fantasize of when 
I was younger. The expectation of seeing 
my feet soaking in the white tumbling wa- 
ter, even though it would' ve been impossible 
to feel water on my paralyzed legs , was 30 
great that tears began to flow freely down 
my cheeks. 

As I looked up, I suppose seeking pity 
fron the animals of the forest, I saw many 

birds. But they weren't crying for me. 
They were looking at me and laughing. 
They were all talking about me and say- 
ing I was insane. They just atared and 
laughed, just like the young children 
that couldn't stop staring at me when 
the nursing hone took us to the state 

„ It .took the nurses approximately 
three hours to find me. They didn't 
seen to be very impressed with the total 

A week later, the director of 
psychology decided it would be better for 
me to live with family. He said I was 
becoming influential towards many pa- 
tients, and caused inconveniences. 

And that, ny boy, is why I have 
cone to live with you and your masters. 
Cone closer. Good boy. 

Okay, now, give me your paw. Good 
dog. Good, beautiful dog. 

Now, ny friend, do you have any 
other questions? Yes, you just go to 
sleep now. You just lying there r emi nds 
me of a certain time when ... 

A A 'X "A***** 

Tom Boucher 

Teri Moore 



As the day turned to early evening, 
the smell of chicken lingered throughout 
the one-story suburban home. Alice had 
just finished setting the table when Joe, 
her husband, walked in. 

"Hi dear," was how Alice greeted Joe. 

"How are you?" Joe asked. 

In a dragging voice, Alice said, "All 
right. How was your ..." 

Wharai The door slammed and Eddy 
charged in. Tears covered his beet-red 
face as his nose ran. 

In a sarcastic tone, Alice asked, 
"What's the matter now, Eddy?" 

Her young oon said, "Jack Barber 
pushed me out of the window and I hurt my 
arm." The tears rolled on. 

A concerned Joe asked, "What window?" 

Eddy pointed to his left and said "At 
that new house they're building." 

Whack 1 Alice slapped Eddy in the 
face. "I told you not to play over ..." 

"What in the hell did you do that for," 
Joe asked. 

"Because he's not supposed to play over 

"Eddy, did your .mother tell you not 
to play at that house?" 

"Well . . . yeah, she did." 

"Go to your roon, NOW!" Joe ordered. 

Eddy walked out. Alice sighed and 
looked at Joe. "Can you believe him?" 

"Shut up." 


"I said, 'shut up'. I'm sick of 
hcvins you screaming every time I come 


A place of chain link fences, 
Bleached white rocks, 
And bark chips. 
The neighbor's dog 
Lies panting in his cage, 
Anticipating one snail misstep, 
So he can lunge at his imprisonero 
And gobble up the children 
With eager tongue. 
While on the other side, 
The elders speak no English 
And work the earth 
Wearing conical hats, 
And magical flowers 
Sprout out of the dirt. 
While I in the middle, 
Smile deliciously at the dog 
And talk perversely to the gardeners , 
Peering, over my steely shield. 

"I bog your pardonl" 

"You can beg all you want and you 
won't get my pardon. You're always up- 
set about someone or something and I'm 
sick of hearing about it." 

"Look, I told him not to play over 
there, and he did anyway." 

"Okay, so he made a mistake. I 
mean, come on, he is just a kid." 

"But I told him." 

"So he '3 being punished now. He's 
in there sweating, thinking about it. 


( continued) 

Later , continued 

You didn't have to snack Miuin the face. 
Don't you ever get tired of baift£ in a 
bad mood?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You know what I mean. You're con- 
stantly ragging about sone thing." 

"Boy, I guess you had a bad day." 

"Yeah, and you cure as hell don't 
help it any." 

Sarcastically, she replied, "Well, I'm 

"No, you're not. Just get ne my 'in- 
ner," Joe moved over to the table and sat 

"Get it yourself!" Alice said. 

"Fine then'" Joe walked to the kitchen 
doorway and screamed. "Eddy, get your 
jacket and come out here." 

"Where are you going?" asked Alice. 

"To get some food." 

"Fine. Just run out." 

same set as the one Eddy had broken the 
week before. She'd gotten a dozen for 
two dollars. "They were no"big invest- 
ment. Why did I holler at him?" 

When she got to the refrigerator, 
she could not open it. Tears obscured 
her vision as she set the glass down. 
She returned to the living room where 
she laid on the couch and cried. She 
actually cried herself to sleep ... 

Crunch! She awoke to the sound of 
a slamming door. 

"Eddy, why don't you go somewhere 
and play for awhile, 
that net/ house." 

Alice panicked. 
What should I do?" 

As Joe walked through the door , 
Alice was there to greet him. 

"I'm sorry," was the simultaneous 

Stay away from 
"They're home. 

"I will. I'm taking Eddy so he doesn't statement uttered by both. 

have to be treated like some juvenile 

In a weeping tone, Alice said, "Would 
you cut it out?" 

"No. The poor kid can't do anything 
right in your book. Last week, he dropped 
a glass, while trying to help you clean up 
the kitchen and you hollered at him all 
night. I mean, come on, I'm sure he dropp 
ped it on purpose. " Joe coughed. "You're 
creating a monster." 

"Yeah, Dad?" Eddy said as he approach- 

"Go wait out in the car, kid." When 
Eddy walked out the door, Joe turned, 
looked at Alice and said, "When we get 
back, let' 3 get this thing straightened 
out. Why don't you get your priorities in 
line?" With that, Joe left the house, 
jumped into the car. Alice watched as they 
drove out of the driveway. 

Alice walked over to the living room 
sofa and sat down. She was extremely up- 

"Asshole. Jerk. Stubborn. Ignorant." 
All of these thoughts came to mind when 
she'd thought of what Joe had said. She 
convinced herself she'd done what was right 
and then stood up and proceeded toward the 

Upon entering, she grabbed the plate 
of chicken and walked over to the table. 
She sat down and began eating a wing when 
she started to question her actions. 

"Look dear," Joe said. "I'm really 
sorry about jumping ell over you. The 
boss chewed me out because I blew an 
account." Joe tossed off his sport 
coat and loosened his tie as he said, 
"After that, I was so upset that I could- 
n't think straight all day. Look, I'm 
really sorry. I guess I'm not around 
here all day to really see and know what 
you go through." 

"Thanks, Joe, but ... you were 
right in the first place." 

"Yeah. I'm just sick of being 
locked up in this house all day. I'm 
sorry, but it's just driving rae crazy. 
I mean, the sane thing every day." 

"Do you think we need a vacation?" 
"No, not at all. A vacation would 
only delay it. The problem is here. We 
have to deal with it." 

"I don't know what to do." 
"Maybe I should see a psychiatrist." 
"Get serious. You don't need that." 
"I am serious. It may help, you 

"My ass, it will help. I'll be 
damned if I'm gonna pay some creep one 
hundred dollars an hour to tell you 
you've got a problem. You're the one 
who has to fix it." 

"How 'bout a job then?" 
"Look, I apologized once. If you 
think you've got a problem, then do 

"Is Joe right?" she thought. "No, no," what you want. I can't help you." 

she told herself. "He ju3t had a bad day." 
She then continued on the wing . . . "Or 
did he?" She dropped the food. "Am I 

ruining Eddy?" She 

oqx an 

to think of 

their ten-year-old, the hope and dreams 
they had for him. "Am I thr&Tis^* all of 
this out the window?" 

Alice left her chair to get a glass of 
uillc. She went to the cupboard and got a 
;la.<3o. As she walked to the refrigerator, 
-he examined the glass. It was out of the 

The two sat and watched TV for the 
rest of the evening. Silence was like 
a blanket covering the room. Joe went 
to bed about 10:30 p.m. 

When Joe awoke at 7:00 a.m. , Alice 
was nowhere to be seen. She'd left a 
note that read: "The problem is mine. I 
have to fix it. Take care of Eddy, 
please. Why do we always wind up hurting 
the ones we love most, the worst of all, 
and most often. Love Alice. Later." 



Sherry Meyer c 

Randy Varju 


A long, long, long, long tine ago in a 
Very? very, very, very far away place, there 
lived two kids. They were brother and 
sister named Matt and Mandy. They were 
spoiled rotten and ungrateful little snips. 
Matt and Mandy always fought with each 
-other and «ware snotty with their -parents -... 
except when their parents had a present 
for then. Matt and Mandy didn't have any 

Matt and Mandy' s favorite place was 
the playroon — closest to their toys, 
in other words. They always played there 
except when their mother, escaping a moment 
for herself, told them to go outside and 

"Come on, Mandy, I'll beat you to tbe 

"Oh, shut-up, Matt. Do you want to 
bring any of our toys outside with us?" 

"No, they're not fun anymore." 

"Hey, Mandy, don't slam the . . ." 
but it was too late. "Mandy, that's the 
last time I'll have the door slammed in 
my face. I'm gonna kill youi" 

The dark, eerie-looking woods i3 
always the place Matt and Mandy go while 
outside. They never seem to mind the damp 
dark chilliness that wrap3 the forest. It 
greets them, opening its arms and welcoming 
them into Its bosom. 

Forgetting about dinner, Matt and his 
sister played until they noticed the woods 
darkening, signaling to them that it was 
time to go. •* -I 

"Matt, I'm going now. I'm bored. 
Let's go home and see if we got some new 

"So go on. Are ya scared? Ha, ha. 
Mandy-Pandy's scared. IThat a baby!" 

"Shut your face, Pig, or I'll beat 
ya up again, Matty Fatty." 

"Oh, yeah?" threatened Matt, picking 
up a dead branch to hurl at Mandy. "Mandy, 
look. Look up there." 

"Oh, you really think I'm gonna look 
up there so you can throw that at me. I'm 
glad I got more brains than you, Matt. 
You're such a . . ." 

"Mandy, look!" exclaimed Matt, drop- 
ping his stick and pointing up to a tree. 

"What is it, Matt, huh?" 

Up in a tree, on a branch, there lay 
a bright ball of glowing light. 

"Go up there, Matt. Get it!" But 
there was no need for Mandy to say any- 
thing because Matt was on his way up. 

Falling to the ground, Matt said, 
"I can't get it!" 

"Let's throw something at it," Mandy 
added, throwing rocks and branches at the 
illuminated mass til It was struck. 

"Oh, my- Go..." 

The mass grew, lighting the once- dark- 
ened woods to a glow so fierce that Matt 
and Mandy had to cover their eyes. The 


Twa3 three months before Christmas 

and all through the stores 

all the stockboys were stocking 

and the bosses were hoarse. 

The mannequins were dressed 

in the windows with care 

in hopes* that ~thH- spendthrifts • « ~ - 

soon would be there. 

The children walked slowly 

all snug in Pro Keds 

while E.T. and Star Wars 

throbbed in their heads 

And Martha in her Jordache 

and I in my cap 

Had just decided 

to find the Mall map, 

when up on the stage 

I watched with amazement 

a man dressed in green 

dancing there on the pavement. 

"I'm a dancing dollar," 

he said with a shout, 

"and I only appear 

to those with clout. 

And because I'm really 

such a neat guy, 

I shall offer you credit 

on anything you buy. 

Electronic games, 

or a white Christmas tree, 

or even a sports car, 

if that is your plea. 

A personal appearance 

by Barnum and Bailey, 

or a*tree*bf youf roots R?*?- 

made by Alex Hailey." 
I looked at him 
and agreed to give in 
as he set down his cane 
and hid his grin. 

Then putting his finger up his nose 
he gave it a poke and up he rose. 
Clinging to the girders 
up all the way, 
I wondered if this nan 
also had a sleigh 
And as the sun had set 
to bring on the night 
I heard him say 
before he faded from sight, 
"Merry Christmas, 

from beginning to end, 

and now don't you worry 

about how much you spend." 

light dulled, but Matt and Mandy 's as- 
tonishment hadn't. They continued to 
stare at the dulled fireball. 

"What is it, Mandy?" 

Befqre she was able to answer, the 
fireball grew until it reached well over 
Matt's head, then a huge puff Slackened 
the air with blue smoke and a smell 
like that of rotten egg salad. 


( continued) 

Playthings, continued 

"What the heck!" Matt caid, almost 
in a whisper o 

The puff turned into a heap of shapes , 
creating a puppet-like creature. It wac 
black and white, made up of triangular and 
rectangular chapeo, somehow held together 
by masses of air surrounding each geometric 
chape. The face wac a fat, round globe of 
shiny wood. Everything ceened painted on 
the puppet — itc eyec, noce, ears, and red 
spots portraying cheeks. The mouth was a 
string of black yarn which began to nove. 
"Hey Matt, let's go. Matt!" 
"Shh! Mandy, wait a sec." 
"DON'T MOVE," the puppet chouted, 
springing up on flat, pater- thin feet. 
Matt and Mandy were not terrified, grasped 

"Will you look at this?" the puppet 
proclaimed'. "Mandy in her beautiful pink 
dress and shiny shoes, and Matt, big, tough 
Matt. Matt, what's wrong? Mandy? Are you 
both afraid of me. Huh? Huh? Huh? Aha- 
ba-ha-ha," laughed the huge puppet. "Well, 
are you!! Afraid of no, Klondimple!" 
"Yes, we are." 
"Uh-huh, uh-huh." 

"Good children, good. Do you want to 
go home?" 

"Uh-huh, uh-huh." 

"Would you stay if I offered you some 
toys? Some new, beautiful toys? I know 
haw much you love your toys. Would you 
stay then?" 

"T-t-toys! Toys for us?" Matt and 
<4mdy cried joyously. 

"Yes, you like that. Ha, you spoiled 
Gotten kids "2 You're terrified of me, but 
Jou still want the toys I have to offer. 
b**b greed!" The puppet KLondimple growled 
spinning around and around, factor and fact- 
fcf on the forest's carpet. 

"If it would only take a little time, 
7feah, sure," Mandy said, chewing her bot- 
tom lip„ 

KLondimple thought for a moment. Lift- 

a ten- inch paper-thin finger, he asked 
Mandy and Matt what toys they wanted. 

"Oh, I want a wagon," said Matt. 

"Don't you already have two of them?" 
asfced KLondimple. 

"Yeah, but I want more 
said. Matt excited. 

"And I want some red jacks. " 

"Some blocks — big blocks." 

"A juniprope." 

"Oh, and I want a new bike." 

"Me too, and some dolls." 

"Some cars." 

"Give me more blocks'.'" 

"And I want some..." 

"Oh, and a . . ." 

"Crayons „" 

"Coloring books." 

"I lore ..." 

"I want ..." 

"Wait! Stop it!! The both of you's!" 
411 these 'I wants' and 'give mes'. I can't. 
>ven tinder ctand you's. You don't really 
think you're going to .g&fc._alL.i-hAK^ tioja 


, more, more!" 

for nothing ... do YOU? No , there 
will be a nr i co you will have to pay." 

"A . * . a . . . price? What kind 
of price?" asked Matt, looking at the 
towering Klondimple. 

"You will both change your behavior, 
or elae." 

"Oh, is that all? That's easy. 
Come on, give us the toys and we'll go 
home right away." Mandy sounded cure 
of herself. 

"No, that's not all, you fools!" 
said the creature, raising himself in 
mid-air. "You are really going to have 
to change. You will become different 
children — helpful, honest, appreciat- 
ive, well-mannered, children! Now, my 
little monsters," Klondimple floated 
around Matt and Mandy, "If you fail — ■ 
and pray that you don't — my spell will 
deliver and you, my dear, little, sweet 
Mandy, and you, brave, tough Matt, will 
diminish into your wooden friends! You 
will join your 'friends' upon the chelf 
as another 'plaything'. Do you under- 

"Yah, sure," they said together, 
answering Klondimplo's questions, without 
the faintest idea of what he said. "Now 
where are our toys?" asked Matt. 

"Go home, and they will be there, 
all for you tc enjoy, but for how long? 
How long, children? Now, flee away, re- 
move yourcolvuc f rom me, but remember to 
watch your behavior. The slightest vish 
you choose to ignore from your parents 
will cost you dearly!" And with that, 
puppet Klondimple turned into a fireball, 
rising to the star- sprinkled sky, illumi- 
nating the forest, then vanished. 
"Hurry. Come on. Let's go!" 
"Yeah, hurry up," Matt said, anxious 
to get home. 

"I guess we have to behave now? Is 
that what he meant?" 

"I guess so. Come on, let's hurry. 
Don't worry, we'll find a way out of it, 
Mandy. Nothing will happen." 

When Matt and Mandy entered their 
bicchwood cottage, marking the floor with 
their dirty feet, they went straight to 
their playroom. Opening the door, they 
couldn't believe their eyes. The room 
was filled with bright, new, shiny toys. 
In a rush, they started digging through 
these new, undeserved playthings. 
"Look, Mandy. Look at this." 
"Oh, Matt, look, look-" 
"Amanda, Matthew, where have you 
been?" asked Mother in the other room. 

"Hey, Matt, remember what Klondimple 

"Yeah. Hey, Mandy, instead of hav- 
ing to behave and stuff, why don't we 
just take our new toys and run away!" 

"Hey, yeah. Then we don't have 
to wox-ry. That's a great idea!" 
"Okay, then, let's hurry!" 
"Matthew, Amanda. I'm talking to 
you! Nov/ get in here. I'm going to 
count tn three and, if I don't see you 


( continued) 

Playthings, continued 

out of that room, you've had It!" 

Still no answer. "One, two, three, 
that does it. I'm coming in there and you 
better have a good excuse. 

** "A' 'A' ** ** 

But when she got there, there wasn't 
anyone in the room. Just a roomful 
of some toys. 

Mary Rose Stonehouse 


Are you the captain of your ship 

Or only a swabby along for the ride? 

Do you feel in control of what happens to you, 

Or are you the pawn of luck and fate? 

Do you rush to the daily horoscope to have a quick giggle — 
Or to find your Life Instructions? 

Isn't it better to feel in charge of your life, 
And take rcoponcibility for what happens to you 
Than to feel out of control , 

That outside events are taking charge of you? 
The choice is yours, unless Omarr* knows better. 

Tom Schmltz 

"Sydney Omarr is syndicated worldwide writer 
of astrology column. 

Michael A. Stillman 


Look*:' ' *»•-♦•'•• 

Lj Mary on a crazy quilt 

of broken dreams and mended hope — 

the cloudy patchwork 

of image and emotion 

that her memory calls 



Fasten seat belts 

Oil brake Alt 

Oil Brake Alt 


Fasten scat belts 

No parking here to corner 
School crossing ahead 

£j She yields a tear, 

and the night shatters into a million crystal r.hardo . ^* 

embedding in her brain; „ ,,.... on 

. , - . . J Speea lxnat 30 

acid-frozen, nxasmic chasm, c 

oold grip, death, 

and again. 

\ | A square of matted indigo: 

the optimism we call space . 

a null-a void ... 

her ancestral home, 

on a chill and distant star. 

[ J A square of contemplation: 

(Am I 

the dreamer or the dream, 

or the gray space in between?') 


£"""| A frame of surprise and pain — 

lifetwist betrayal 

a tithe to experience 


P~i she wraps. 


Left lane must turn left 


No turn on red 


Jefferson St. 


Red/White Red/White Red/White Red/White 
Red/White Red/White Red /White Red/White 
Red/White Rod/White R e d/White Red/White 




Mary Rose Stonehouoe 

Teri Moore 


My mother always telle ne that no- 
torial possessions aren't supposed to last 
very long in this world or even if they do, 
they lose their importance to us with the 
passing of time. In my experience, I've 
found this to be false. In my case, a 
pair of child's pajamas is one of the 
material possessions I've cherished for 
over thirty years. 

It all started back in the Korean War 
(1950), my father was a reconnaisance fly- 
er in the Air Corps. This entailed flying 
into Korea and taking pictures of possible 
bombing sights. In Joliet, my mother, 
my brother (age two) and myself (age 3) 
were waiting for his tour of overseas duty 
to be over with. 

As many American service men did, he 
wanted to bring back souvenirs to his fam- 
ily. My dad chose fans, vases, exquisite 
Chinese dolls, little children's toys, 
twenty- four- carat gold-edged dishes, and 
finally, for me, his little girl, a pair 
of delicate, brown, silk pa jama bottoms and 
a hand- loomed gold and aqua Chinese mand- 
darin top. The scene on the mandarin top 
was a fairy tale of Pagodas, princesses, 
fragile flying birds, twisting trees with 
pink heart-shaped leaves, and a host of 
exotic flowers of every transparent hue. 

Several years later, we moved back to 


Purple rhododendron 
Rufflin' at the sight 
Of raggedy golden marigolds 
Standing staunchly upright. 
Rosebuds unfurling, 
Gettin' ready for tea. 
Fuzzy-headed dandies 
Creepin' up wickedly. 
Gardener on his knees 
Pluckin' mighty hard. 
His lone winter body, 
Palest thing in the yard. 


good enough to win first prize in that 
school pageant. Again seeing them, I 
recalled how my father and I vised to walk 
on the beach and especially how loved 
and special I felt being with him. 

The last time the pjs were worn 
was the Halloween of 19 79. Adam, my son, 
scampered around that day and completely 
tore the crotch of the pants and pulled 
out all the elastic in the waistband, 
but it gave me great pleasure to see him 
enjoy himself with my dad's gift, es- 
pecially since my son was named after my 

From a Womans Day magazine article , 
I got the idea of preserving my souvenir 
by framing it under glass. I carefully 

Joliet. Since I had gotten to big for then, mended them and had a framing shop place 

I placed those pajamas in my barret drawer 
wrapped in wax paper. Many times I took 
them out when I was feeling lonely and just 
held them. It seemed to comfort me. I 
^tever told anyone because I felt strange to 
share the thought of being close to my dad 
by just holding- those pajamas. 

The years went by, my prized Tony doll 
and Betsy Wetsy doll were replaced by a 
record player and record albums; "South 
Pacific," "West Side Story," "Oklahoma," 
and "Kismet." These were dislodged by the 
Beatles to my mother's horror. I didn't 
take out my pajamas very much but I dt<S re- 
wrap than in a plastic bag to protect them. 

In 1964, I graduated from high school 
and went to college. The pajamas were left 
at home. I came back married and collected 
them with my other things and noved to my 
first apartment. 

Truthfully, I completely forgot about 
them until I had my first child, a girl. 
I finally dug out the pajamas and let her 
wear them for Halloween. She looked so 
cute in them and seeing her in them trig- 
gered a long-ago forgotten memory of how 
gentle and soft-spoken my dad always was 
with me. 

The next Halloween the pjs were worn 
by my second daughter. By then the elas- 
tic around the tops of the bottoms was get- 
f\fng...j?-txerched out.,, but. they still looked 

them on a soft beige mat, then press then 
under glass and edge it with a pecan 
frame. I hung my pajamas in the main 
hall of my home where I can see them 
many times a day. 

They are quite a conversation piece. 
Now I don't feel strange telling people 
why I framed them and what they have 
meant to me. My dad was killed in Korea 
shortly after sending the souvenirs he 
chose for us home. Having the pajamas 
is like having a little piece of him and 
his love for me x/ith me always. I'll 
forever value my Korean pajamas. 


Cynthia Jean Craig 


"Extra! Extra! Read all about it! 
Senator Douglas caught in adulterous 
scandal! Extra! Get the Windy City 
Thank you, mister. Extra! Senator 
Douglas ..." 

The young hawker's high-pitched voxa 
continued to echo the same news heard 
across the street from the Communique . 

I bought the paper from the youth, 
and folded back the page to read the 
headline; "Senator Douglas Caught in 
Adulterous Scandal." 

(continued, next, column) 


( continued) 

Picture Perfect, continued 

Scanning down the page to the article, 
1 boson reeding as I continued walking up 
Michigan Avenue 

Flipping to the page where the ctory 
was continued, I caw a sensational photo 
of the senator in an enticing embrace, 
one that had ignited the rumors to spread 
like wild fire among the adi_iir.ictrc.tivc 

• --Senator Douglas was In Chicago to gain 
popularity during the campaign. 

Well, I thought to myself, this cer- 
tainly wac a good way of doing it! 

I had been remarkably fortunate to 
gain possession of the photos in the first 
place. It had called for perfect timing. 
Actually, I just happened to be at the 
right place at the right time. 

Whoever chose the man to have the film 
developed, carelessly made the mistake of 
choooing a simpleton, because he took the 
precious film to the local drug store. 

It just so happened that I was in the 
store at the time. I was buying aspirins 
for a nasty cold, one I had had for weeks. 
I overheard the man at the counter ask the 
clerk when his pictures would be ready. 
Actually, it was not the question itself 
that drew ray attention to him. Rather, it 
was the shifty, nervous look in his eyes, 
as he kept looking out the store window 
and at other customers. 

I purposely stepped behind a tall 
chelving unit out of his view and continued 
to listen to his conversation. 

"How long will it take to have my pic- 
tures developed?" he asked the store clerk. 
-- *Well, Se*ein' as it's early this mor- 
nin' you're dropping 'em off, I'd say no 
later 'n tomorrow afternoon." 

"Exactly what time would that be?" 

"Whenever the delivery boy brings 'em 
back, I cu'poce," he replied with a chrug. 

"I need to know the exact time. It's 

I moved a few bottles aside on the 
shelf in order to get a better look at him. 
Judging from his well-tailored grey, three- 
piece suit and polished black leather shoes, 
he was a man of means. Either that or 
someone hired him to make the drop and look 

He began to grow more nervous and 
started drumming his long, well-manicured 
fingers on the counter. Trking out his 
gold pocket-watch , he popped open the carv- 
ed lid to check the time. 

"Look," he began, "it'c only 8:45 in 
the morning. Surely you can have them 
back by this evening." 

"Gorry, no sooner than tomorrow. 
There's nothing I can do." 

"Very well then, I'll be back first 
thing in the morning." 

Ac the clerk took his name, I made a 
a note of it in my mind. 

I would have to find come way to delay 
him tomorrow, so I could pick up the pic- 

tures before he would. 

Forgetting the aspirins, I quickly 
left the store to follow after him. I 
watched him board the bus at the corner. 
He probably rode the same bus every day. 
I could easily manage to persuade the 
driver to delay a few minutes longer on 
his morning route with a few bills of 
various denominations. 

, Entering. tha„cprner drug .s£°r e the 
following morning wearing glasses and 
a disguise, I casually asked the clerk 
if the pictures were back from the lab. 

"Yes. Just about five minutes ago. 
What's the name?" 

"Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Samuel Footer. 
My husband dropped our pictures off yes- 

"Foster, Foster, ah yes, here they 
are. Your husband seemed pretty nervous 
about getting them back on time." 

"Yes. They're our honeymoon pic- 
tures . We have family coming this week- 
end. They'd like to see them." 

"Oh how nice. The total comes to 
$6.50, Mr 3. Foster." I paid the clerk 
and was out the door when I saw the bus 
first reaching the corner. I quickened 
my pace and hailed a cab. Getting in, 
I told the cabbie to drive south, taking 
me in the opposite direction of the store. 

My hands were shaking as I took out 
the package and pulled out the black and 
white glossies. I gasped at what I saw! 
I couldn't believe my eyes. Someone had 
managed to photograph a couple in a very 
lascivious situation. That's when I 
realized what I had. done* This was more 
than I expected. At closer inspection 
of the woman in the pictures, I realized 
that she was not just another voluptuous 

She wac, revealingly, Senator 
Douglas. Senator Rhoda Douglas. I recog- 
nized all too well who the nan was. 

I slipped the photos back into the 
envelope and put the package into my 
handbag. Relaxing against the back seat 
in the cab, I thought to nycelf the 
the paparazzi were certainly busy 
these days. 

Comirg out of the front doors of the 
Windy City news building, I couldn't help 
smiling to myself. I had accomplished 
what I had intended to do. Well, that 
should throw a bucket of ice on my 
husband's affairs onee and for all. 

Crossing the street at Crate and 
Barrel, I heard the bell in the tower of 
the First Presbyterian Church toll 6 p.m. 
Reaching the Chicago City Parking Deck, 
I thought to myself that this hail certain- 
ly been an eventful day. 




Maureen Mueller 

Randy Varju 


This machine . . . 
Vibrating under the otrain 
Feeling uncomfortably like 
Slipping belts 
In the Thinker's brain 
When pride tangles hie mind; 
Choking rhythms 
In the Lover ' s heart 
When guilt clogs its valves; 
Whining uneasiness 
In the Victim's soul 
When doubt hides 



Bev Garcia 



Cheetoes, Doritoes, Frito Lay, 
My mouth is so full what can I say? 
Pringles, Ruffles, Tostitoes, Jayc, 
What's this talk of a health-nut craze? 
Cheetoes, Doritoes, Frito Lay, 
Thunder- thighs is what they say. 

Snickers, Reeses, Almond Joy, 

I have three teeth just as a boy. 

Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Frankenberry , 

My dentures make me talk with a whisp. 
Snickers, Reeses, Almond Joy, 
I should have used a teething toy. 

Twinkie, Twinkie, Hershey Bar, 
I don't know what calories are. 
Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, apple pie, 
Too many to mention, so many to try. 
Twinkie, Twinkie, Hershey Bar, 
I've only gained six pounds so far. 

The no-wax floor gets a well-earned bath, 

the cat throws up her "Tender Vittles"o 

The two- inch shag is meticulously vacuumed, 

the dog sheds the "Oregan Trail" across it. 

The dishes are washed to a squeaky clean 

just in time for a spaghetti dinner. 

"Mr. Clean" died of exhaustion in the kitchen, 

no mourners grieved at his passing. 

The "Wisk" failed on ring-around- the-collar, 

thi3 grave phenomenon went unnoticed. 

Accomplishment is not my middle name, 

futility reigns supreme in my world. 

Cobwebs and dust-bunnies live to ripe, old ages 

in the dusty corners of my life. 

An unbroken circle of disappointing achievement! 

greets me enthusiastically every morning. 

The no-wax floor gets a well-earned bath, 

the cat throws up . . . 

Chris Moore 


All you can ec .t 

Is common to see here and there, 

Whatever the bill of fare. 

Get your share 

Whether fish, chicken, salad, 

Or whatever, 

You forsake the bread, 

Pass up potatoes and rice, 

Go straight for the advertised 


If self- serve, you go back, 

Getting more than you can handle. 

If the waitress asks, 

"Would you care for another .oorving?"- 

You reply, "Sure," 

Knowing you have had enough. 

After stuffing your stomach 

You rise from the table, 

If you're able, 

And waddle away. 

Maureen Mueller 


Rico's nimble fingers fly 

across the crusty boats, 
Piling on the morsela — 

vicious gas-producing bloats. 
Tossing glops of secret sauce 

enough to blow one's mind, 
Garlic bombs of sausage — 

peppers of the deadly kind. 
Slicing onion rings with flair 

(Frisbee-size at least), 
Pastrami and 3ome pungent cheese 

he spreads upon this feast. 
He glances at the head-cheese 

but the customer objects, 
So he opts for liverwurst instead — 

prosciutto mounds are next. 
Lettuce and tomatoes? 

What? And spoil this baby^s flavor' 
■Jauorkraut has more pizzazz — 

Voila! Stand back and savor i 


Bev Garcia 


I surely would kill for a big juicy steak 
with piles of french-fries surrounding. 
I dream every night of chocolate cake 
and strawberry ice-cream abounding. 

Spaghetti excites me for weeks on end, 
while "Boston Creme" pies tempts ne badly. 
Lasagna can send me around the bend, 
and_ for "Snickers'! I'd go there gladly. 




A Dieter's Latent, continued 

A "Big Mac" gives me goo3eburaps and shivers 

and with pizza I'm not really shy. 

But in my mirror I start to quiver 

ao my measurements start- to-cliak high. 

Now all good things must eome, ta aruend, 
including -ny gluttonous ways. 
So- with carrots and celery -my habits T: r Il_iaend 
going hungry for live rest of my days- 

Brothers of the Sea 


Mountains veiled in mist, 
Murky waters swirl and flow, 
Song of restless souls. 



Dan Zahorcik 


A small shining object drifted slow- 
ly through the vast starfield. Roughly 
cylindrical in shape, underneath crusting 
masses of rock and ice metallic fins and 
wings could be seen, it floated along 
aimlessly, pulled by the faint gravitation- 
al whims of distant stellar bodies. 

Empires rose and fell; whole galaxies 
were created and destroyed. Still the 
derelict wandered ^oblivious to all. 

Deep inside this hunk of cosmic 
driftwood, a lone passenger slept. When 
the ship had been overcome by a strange 
combination of gasses from the exploding 
star. Now he sat, eternally frozen at 
the corrals. 

But he was not dead. By reasons 
known only to God, or by some quirk of 
fate, he had become suspended in time, 
perfectly preserved. Only hi3 subconscious 
mind still functioned normally. He dream- 
ed on, never* waking. 

He relived all his old memories first: 
childhood sunoerc 3 grassy fields.^ cool 

nights spent stargazing. He joined the 
the space program again, he married, the 
gas cloud engulfed his ship. Everything 
re-occurred over and over again. 

Hundreds of years passed. He dreamed 
on incessantly. Memories of events, inci- 
dents, and people began to combine and 
change. Eventually, there was no truth. 
His great-grandfather roared up in a 
starship and brought him back home. Aftei 
returning to Earth, he wound up sinking 
the German battleship Bismarck, and later 
winning World War II single-handedly. Or 
was it World War III? No matter; a few 
dreams later, he remembered that it was 
his faithful German shepherd puppy, Lolf 
who rescued him. 

Thousands of years passed, and still 
he dreamed on. Reality became a fleeting 
truth. If he was rescued, how would he 
know? Immortality, long sought on Earth, 
had been romanticized into the "ultimate 
gift." Yet at times, the sleeper knew 
different. Perhaps Fate's cruelest act — 
only death could ever prove out as 


Jayne Woodcock 


Arnie Fitzenfeffer, inmate #1472546, 
was paralyzed with fear. Heart thudding 
and knees knocking in a wild, yet simul- 
taneous staccato rhythm, he was trapped, 
feet dumbly rooted to the cold, concrete 
floor beneath him, transfixed by a mixture 
of awe and terror that steeled his soul 
to the ground. A thief and a cold-blooded 
killer of countless innocents, he had 
spent the last four years of his life on 
death-row, waiting defiantly for the con- 
summation of a sentence handed down to 
him by an equally cold-blooded judge, a 
sentence that would be fulfilled at exact- 
ly seven-forty-five tomorrow morning. But 
death wa3 not the reason for his terror; he 
had seen it too many times in the eyes of 
too many people to fear such an inconse- 
quential, everyday occurrence as death. 

Yet now the stone heart of A. Fitzenfeffe 
was caught in bis dry, wordless mouth, 
and his hands and underarms were soaked 
with the wetness of utter panic. 

The terrible light had begun as a 
pale pinpoint of bright upon the cell 
wall opposite his single bunk. The pin- 
point was so tiny that it would have gone 
unnoticed had it not been such a star tl in' 
contrast to the deep, thick darkness he 
had grown so accustomed to during the 
past three nights he had spent in the 
windowless world of solitary confinement • 
Arnie would have been allowed to associat 
and socialize with the other prisoners 
during his final days, but as the hours 
closed in on bin, like invisible hands 
around his throat, he became increasingly 
and irrationally violent, c tri!'inr out 


( continued) 

The One That Got Away, continued 

at prisoners and guards alike with the ob- 
vious intent to kill. As a consequence, 
his final three days had been spent alone 
in a seven- by- seven concrete cubicle in 
total darkness — until now. Until the 
light appeared, an incongruous little 
speck upon the cell wall opposite his sin- 
gle bunk." * : "* "" * * 
At first, because of the black apathy 
that had settled in his gut during the 
long hours of solitude, he was hardly cur- 
ious, but upon realizing that there was no 
logical source from whence the light could 
come, he decided to investigate, and cross- 
ed the tiny room to the speck on the wallo 
Squinting so as to better see in the dark- 

task once begun, but you must rise, dear 
fellow, and quickly . . ." 

Arnie rose to his knees to face the 
omnipresence, his visage as dull and grey 
as the death that awaited him on the other 
side of the night, and began to confess. 
His lips moved silently at first, but the 
wotds they "formed "soon - became audible', 
as, trancelike, he recited all the evil 
works he had done, all the heinous crimes 
he had ever committed. The light glim- 
mered in approval now and then as the 
night wore on. 

Daylight cane, but not to the window- 
less cell of Arnie Fitzenfeff er„ Eyes 
screwed open wide, lips still moving, Arnie 

ness, Arnie leaned forward until the tip of continued the purification process as the 

his scrawny nose was all but scraping the 
rough concrete as he focused his unaccus- 
tomed eyes upon the light,, 

It was a horrible and soundless ex- 
plosion that momentarily destroyed his 
senses and sent him crashing backwards in- 
to his bunko With his eyes mere inches 
from the vibrating speck, the light burst 
open and spread immediately over the en- 
tire wall as a spark spreads when drop- 
ped in a pool of kerosene. The light was 
cold, brilliant, and agonizingly blinding. 
It swelled and throbbed majestically; it 
pulsed and breathed. 

light waited beside him. The rasping of 
an iron key in the lock of his cell did 
not deter him from his urgent task. The 
brilliance faded and retreated to only 
It-knew- where, as the door opened and 
the sickly light of the raornin S spilled in 
onto the floor of the cell, but 3till 
Arnie mumbled on, totally ignoring the 
priest who droned used-up words that held 
no consolation for the deaf ears of in- 
mate #1472546. Not even when the guard 
forced him to his feet and led him out 
of the cell and into the long hallway, did 
Arnie cease rattling on senselessly in 

Arnie was overcome, his sanity destroy-a voice too worn and rasping to be intel- 
ed, his mind a slick, blank slate of black ligiblo to the human ear, but somewhere 
terror. The whole wall danced monstrously, Something listened and glimmered faintly, 
obscenely with the pulsing chill of the Arnie did not let up on his confes- 
white light;** it surrounded Arnie and ate'' sion even as the guard strapped hii'i into 
at his soul. Then within the wordless void the chair; rather, his mumbles increased 

that was the mind of Arnie Fitzenfeffer , a 
deep, resonant voice thundered. 

"You know who I am." 

A silent sob racked the prisoner's 
thick body and he crumbled to the floor, 
quivering like a mass of pale gelatin. A 
howl began inside his head, a horrible 
howl , worse than the sound of rabbits 
screaming, intense and full of accusation. 
Arnie' s writhing fingers tore at his hair, 
and he began cracking his skull upon the 
solid floor in a futile attempt to relieve 
that sound, to release it from the echoing 
confines of his cranium. "Please!" he 
shrieked. "Get out! Get out and leave me 
to die!" 

The howl subsided, but the voice and 
the light remained. "Death will come soon 
enough, too soon if you do not hurry," it 
boomed urgently. "Time is the most neces- 

in tempo until his voice became a weak, 
hysterical babble. His rolling eyes and 
writhing fingers were the only other clues 
to his inner turmoil as his voice rose to 
a wailing falsetto. The guard glanced 
at the clock — seven-forty — and turned 
to leave the death-house, the iron doors 
clanging shut behind him with resouding 

Arnie' s voice was a panicked infant's 
wail now, and hi3 eyes darted nervously 
from the clock on the wall to his own 
wriggling fingers, to the unconceraed- 
looking little man who stood impassively 
beside THAT SWITCH smoking a cigarette, 
and back to the clock again. 3avon~^ ort y'" 
three, and Arnie 's wail took «n an even 
greater urgency, the desperate sound of 
a soul retching violently in a final, 
futile attempt to cast out the last of its 

sary element for complete purification, you demons forever. S even- forty- four s and 
know." A-rnie still shook in a heap upon the faceless little man by the wall flick- 
the floor, his muscles deprived of all ed his cigarette to the floor, ground the 
usefulness by the shock his mind and emo- burning ash out with the heavy heel of 
tions had received. The voice*- became his boot, and placed a knobby hand upon 
coaxing. "Your soul is slick .and black with THAT SWITCH in disinterested anticipa- 
the slime of sin and the blood of innocent tion. 

hearts. Here we give to you the chance for Arnie 's eyes were bulging now, com- 
forgivenesc, for eternal life if only you pletely riveted on the second hand as 
confess .and repents. Purifying is a simple it slid purposefully around the impassive 


( continued) 

The One That Got Away, continued 

face of the clock. Forty seconds — thirty The light glimmered sadly and turned 
seconds — fifteen — ceven, six, five, to the star at Its metaphysical elbow. 
four, three, two, one . . . "You know," said the light, "it really is 

A fire hotter than holl itself buret quite a shame. The poor fellow quitG 
into Arnie Fitzenfeffer' s body, boiling hie nearly made it. Only three cine left to 
blood, and his babbling became a high-pit- go." It sighed. 

ched howl , a horrible howl , worse even "Yes," ' a a rce j the star in rather 

than the screaming of rabbits . . . 

apathetic concurrence, 

"It really is a 


Teri Moore 



A lonely raindrop, 

Cruises sadly down 

A stagnant gutter 

Destination unknown. 

The bead collides 

With 3pilled lies, 

Mingles with falsehoods. 

A purified crystal reality 

Drowned in a murky corrupt pool. 


Chris Moore 


Judy Belfield 


We have traveled a pathway through the cosmos, 

the new, uncharted, snaking river 

that winds round savage stars, 

threading its course past the Milky Way 

into the great barbarian void. 
We become mad explorers facing insane paradoxes: 

we are the crowning glory of the universe, 

symmetrical perfections cut down 

by the bloodied spears of eternity 

hacked into the infinitesimal accidents 

that we are. 
Our eyes see nothing but everything 

in the neverending blackness; 

we are nothing and everything that is . . . 
And those of us who live to return 

will only tell of beauty 

for we dare not speak the rest. 

STOLEN: One small measure 

Of peace, humor, wit, 
Spooky and funny stories, 
Day to day happiness. 


Kathy Siedler 

TAKEN FROM: Our minds. 


CULPI1IT: Loct inr-piration. 
No address known, 
Still at large, 
Considered threatening. 

Synthetic rebel 
mock dignity, 
the genesis 
of polarity. 

Judy Belfield 

On warm Sunday afternoons , 

up and lc\7n my block j 

if I listen carefully, 

I can hear conversations humming, 
or water sprinkling, 
or \/eeds wrenching out of gardens. 
My west window 

brings in the allday chirp of birds, 

and the cricketsongs 

which start after the hot, four o'clock sun 
fries me over a high flame until seven, 
when it sizzles out in the liquid night. 
These are silent Sundays, 

and after lunch, 

I relax in a sitting room 

with hundreds of years in my bones 
wanting to argue with Her aclitus. 


The callous sentry 
Oversees the maze; 
Obsolete concepts 
Of yesterday. 

Adipose tissue 
Once Olympian brain, 
Feast of the critics 
Sapient, but vain. 

Muted trumpets 
Strain to recall, 
Blithe notation; 
The host is apalled. 

A halo of smoke 
Ascending the wall, 
Dissipating ... 
To nothing at all. 


Nancy Lockhart 


I study, over coffee, 

The AP baby with bandaged eyes and 

No arms , 

Held in the lap of a nurse 

For its feeding. 

Swaddled child 

Shaped like a bomb. 

A Baby Ruth 

Whose chocolate blood 

Mel to into newsprint . . „ 


Teri Moore 


Is it too late fro dreams? 

Have they been relegated 

To night's dusty niches, 

Shed off in daylight hours 

As fantastic encumbrances? 

Or have dreans dissolved altogether? 

Soiaeone — King, I think, 

Held a drean in his head. 

Images were shot to p i e c e s 

On a balcony. 

Nobody picked «p the dream part, 

And ducted off the treasure. 

Is it too late for dreams? 

Too late, 

Too ... 

Lang s ton knew 

What happened to dreams put off. 

Do you? 


Judy Bel field 

A ghostly gray-white horse 

against the sickly green sky 

which teases his pale sinews, 

bleeds through his flank3 so delicately, 

almost imperceptibly, 

like age wlklah comes to the shroud by moments 

and barely touches the folds 

with silent fingers. 
On his back a regal saint 

in colors bold and brilliant — 

a freeflow of passionate hues 

conn trained by fabric 

tightly fitted to his broad chest. 
Beside the pallid horse, 

a lean-limbed beggar, 

tall and gaunt, 

with 3kin as thinly tinted as a specter. 
And all around, 

the sickly green sky weeps 

like drainage from infected sores, 

and we are trapped for evermore 

in disease. 


Teri Moore 


Certain people forget sometimes 
And slip up and say things 
About "niggers." 

The word doesn't bother me so much 
I just wonder why they forget. 


Nancy Lockhart 


A Snow White death — 
Clean, quick, 
Like teeth which pierce 
A magic apple. 

Meanwhile, far from Monaco 

(Just left of Hollywood) 

Mrs. Nextdoor dies dirty. 

u cly takes it slow, 

A slice at a time. 

She dies like grey baloney. 

No one seems to notice 

llev mortality's gone stale. 




*l strongly fffl&l tftst to a certain exfieiat 
there are altna-si as flamy unlivar&es as. tNre 
are people., that «uch Irat'lvidaal In soste sense 
lives in a uirtws* of his mm waking: it is: 
a product of h!*'b*lwg« a personal achtttveiwnt 
he sht»ut4 perhaps be prwttt of- M 

Philip K. Dick 

J5& '**